WHEN DAWSON DIES, I’M AT WORK READING THROUGH PATIENT COMPLAINTS

They think I’m God, believing I can actually make a difference. But none of us ever see the pain coming—the way parking tickets blow off cars and hide in the snow. The government comes to collect, eventually, in what feels like the longest winter of our lives. Though creeks grow into rivers emptying into oceans, everything suddenly stops at an island’s front door, and we all vanish. When I leave work early, I walk to the cafe to avoid freezing. The junkie out front is eating a pizza slice the wrong way. Sauce is getting all over their hands, making it look like blood.