We're penned up in a conference room with a bunch of other people, then we're all questioned sequentially about our movements over the past forty-eight hours. We gossip about what happened. "That DV who flatlined on Wednesday," a resident says. "Her body disappeared from the morgue."

"Are you kidding?" says a nurse. "We're here because some med students stole a cadaver?"

"Whoever stole it put a new one in," the resident says. That shuts everyone up for a bit. "Anyone we know?" I finally ask.

The resident shrugs. "Some volunteer. I heard the body was pretty torn up."

I think two things. First, Oh shit, Meena saw Tasha. Second, What if it was Tasha? My mind turns to what she looked like that night, but my visual memory isn't so good; I think in labels. If I thought I saw food stains, I remember food stains. But she was hurt, so there could be blood on the scrubs that I didn't see, and if they find bloody scrubs they'll find Tasha's DNA and they'll come to our house and take John and Dexter and Tasha out into the night. This is not straight thinking, obviously. I have to remind myself why I'm afraid of the night, that I have a history with it. But I'm not afraid of violence, if I'm truthful with myself; I think of the pen punching through my skin and the hands bruising my shoulders with the opposite of fear; what haunts me is the blazing, ravenous moon, the icy sky.

I stare down at my hands. The people on my right look like scared deer. The people on my left look like sponges full of blood.

Stu puts a hand on my back and pats gently, just three times. His palm is as hot as a hearth. "Different when it's one of your own, isn't it?" he says, I can tell to cover up my increasingly alarming weirdness. And I think Yes, the cops don't care when patients die, which is wrong, but I couldn't tell you why.