The bite marks on the man in Room 614 were too large for a pitbull.

Wendolyn could feel the current of excitement as she clocked in for her shift. Two nurses had already texted her about it; three more approached her on her way in, grabbing her by the elbow or pinching her scrubs. Apparently there was a betting pool, with the leading guess that the man had somehow crossed paths with the escaped lion from the Detroit Zoo—maybe was the lion smuggler himself!—and was hiding it.

Rumors swirled that someone had called the police. It was all very hush hush, of course, which meant that everyone but the man in Room 614 knew. The halls swarmed with residents, med students, hospitalists, and volunteers, all casually strolling past 614 for a glance at the man who might soon be plastered on the 6:00 news. 

Wendolyn declined the three offers she had in her first twenty minutes to take a walk by the man’s room. She couldn’t think of anything less interesting than two seconds of ogling a man under heavy sedation and ensconced in bandages, and besides, she had Peter’s ultimatum to think about.

Wendolyn dug her nails into her palm, trying to fight a wave of nausea.

One of her patients, Mr. Michaels, kept falling out of bed. He was due for surgery at six in the morning to remove the tumor octopused around his brain. Of course that would only buy him time—months, maybe, if he was lucky—but he had signed off on it, and now had only to avoid some catastrophic injury for the five remaining hours before the nurses wheeled him to the O.R.

Wendolyn cursed when his alarm went off again. She didn’t have time to babysit him the whole night, and she didn’t want to deal with the wrath of whatever administrator or family member wanted her head when Mr. Michaels was deemed unfit for morning surgery.

This is the problem, Peter would say. You take all of it on yourself. You don’t see that you’re affecting both of us when you—

“I don’t need a nurse,” Mr. Michaels snapped.

“Of course not,” said Wendolyn brightly, guiding him back into the bed. “There you are, and Mr. Michaels, if you climb out one more time, I’m afraid I will need to call someone about restraints.”

“I just need to pee.”

“You have a catheter in, sir.” She smiled, feeling it strain across her face. She wanted to grab a chunk of dark hair and bite it, like she did when she was in middle school, feeling the coarse texture string across her tongue until all other thoughts blurred and faded away.

Mr. Michaels grunted and collapsed back into bed. Wendolyn considered restraining him anyway, but settled on a mini-vigil. She could spare a couple minutes.

Always such a martyr, Peter’s voice said, exasperated. It’s like you think you get a gold star for running yourself ragged. It’s because your mom never—

Mr. Michaels snored. Wendolyn jumped. How had seven minutes passed? She hurried out of the room.

Three a.m. stretched into four. The alarm for Mr. Michaels’s bed went off again, and someone called in the order for restraints. After Wendolyn returned from a lengthy post-seizure cleanup down the hall—her nose still burning with the smell of defecation mixed with bleach—Mr. Michaels was snoring again, his mottled cheeks streaked with tear tracks.

Was restraining him really the kind thing to do? He hated it. And if he fell and couldn’t have surgery…wouldn’t it be better to avoid prolonging the inevitable? Let him die on his own terms. And yet, he wanted the surgery. Wanted to cling to life like the rest of them, the petty routines and small indulgences that made all of them believe there’d be something better just around the corner, some grand finale that life was building toward, the dream they’d always deferred come to life.

“They’re moving him.”

Wendolyn jumped. One of the other nurses hung in the doorway, green eyes blinking at her. 

“Mr. Michaels?” Wendolyn said. “But—”

“No, the tiger guy,” the nurse said impatiently. “Prepping for surgery. Debridement of the wound, probably. They said he’s yours now until the surgeon gets here.” She paused, and when Wendolyn just stared at her, uncomprehending, she added, “If you need any help…”

Wendolyn clocked the woman’s phone in her right hand, fingers twitching. You cling to the rules, Peter would say, like it makes you morally superior to everyone else. When you just use them to judge people.

Three days. Three days to decide if she’d take the hospice job, the reduced hours, the easier lifestyle. Accept Peter’s vision for their new life, one without the stress of night shifts and hospital infections, one where he could “see himself marrying her and having a baby—if she’d only slow down and take care of herself.” A prospect that would be much more appealing without his exasperated voice echoing in her mind.

“There he is,” the nurse said, a thrill of excitement in her voice. “Wendy, I—”

“Wendolyn,” Wendolyn said firmly. “Get off my floor.”

“I—”

“Now.” Wendolyn brushed past her and crossed the hall just before the hospital bed wheeled past. She got her first glimpse of the man from Room 614, one side of his face swollen and blue, his torso bandaged and bloodied, skin a sickly white. She wondered if people would still try to ogle him at the morgue, if that’s where he ended up. Probably. An image flashed in front of her: Mr. Michaels and the man from 614, walled up in adjacent metal shelves in the morgue, still at last.

Five a.m. came and went, then six. Four more hours on shift, then home to sleep. By the time she woke up half her ultimatum time would be gone. Peter was staying at his friend’s for the weekend to “give her space,” something he had never done during an argument before. 

He was serious, she could tell. 

She thought of all the little hints he had given her over the past year, the half-muttered comments, the tight-lipped denials that anything was wrong, the gentle suggestions followed by frustrated sighs. 

Had she caused all that? Certainly he had been happy in the beginning. They had talked about getting married three months in. That was two years ago. Had he been happy at all recently, truly happy? Could she make him happy? Maybe he had seen the real her, finally, the kind of person that wasn’t down to go watch a last-minute sports game or play corn hole for hours on a random Saturday. The kind of person who was lazy with dishes, and liked rather trashy television, and who derived most of her self-worth from a job that didn’t give very much back, even when someone like Peter—a lawyer from a large family whose worst vice was his predilection for video games—wanted more from her, wanted to start real life.

Mr. Michaels was taken back for his surgery, and the man in Room 614—who was now the man in Room 603—was taken soon after. Wendolyn felt strangely relieved he had not woken up.

“Excuse me.”

Wendolyn jumped. A police officer stood in front of her, a nondescript young man with his thumbs hooked into his belt, looking a bit like a boy playing dress up. “I’m looking to talk to the man with the bite marks. Someone said you could help me.” He smiled, half-shrugging his shoulders like, isn’t this a strange world. Wendolyn wondered who had called him. The surgeon would be angry, and Wendolyn knew for a fact that the charge nurse would want everyone’s head for a HIPAA violation. When you had money and power, you liked to keep control of your domain.

“He’s still in surgery,” Wendolyn said curtly. “I would come back in a few hours. The anesthesia will take some time to wear off.”

“When does he get out of surgery?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will he survive? If he dies—”

“I don’t know,” Wendolyn said. “I’m so sorry, that’s an alarm. Excuse me.”

Mr. Michaels returned. Wendolyn swept her gaze over him as she scribbled the new medication list on the whiteboard. He looked shriveled, like someone had squeezed out half his juice and discarded the rind. 

Wendolyn’s phone buzzed. The charge nurse had seen the police officer. Three separate nurse chats had popped up about it. Someone said they heard the man, who was named Ed, was not going to make it. Someone else said he’d confessed to housing a baby hippo. He wasn’t crushed, he was mauled, someone wrote back, and screenshots of AI-generated summaries of different animal bites began pinging back and forth.

Peter hadn’t texted. Wendolyn began typing.

I’m sorry I got so upset last night. I just—

Delete.

Hey. Hope you had a good night. I’ve been thinking, and I—

Delete.

I want all the same things you want. I can’t stand it when we fight. You can’t just make it seem like I’m some horrible person that doesn’t care about you. I forgave you last year, I wasn’t—

Delete, delete, delete.

A low buzz filled the air. Wendolyn looked up. Ed was back from surgery. 

The police officer hovered outside the door for the first two hours. Wendolyn alerted her superior, who alerted hospital management. The charge nurse had a go at him, citing all the regulations that the police officer was violating while the young officer grinned in his face. Management sent one of the younger nurses to ask him to wait in the cafeteria, giggling apologetically. He obliged.

“Get his full name and address when he wakes up,” Wendolyn’s boss told her, acrylic nails wrapped around the room’s door handle as she poked her head inside. “He was talking about a kid.”

Wendolyn’s stomach clenched. She glanced at Ed, who was stirring now, wiry hands moving fitfully beside his bandaged ribs.

She delayed by checking on her other patients. Mr. Michaels had a visitor, a woman in her mid-forties who looked tired and grim. She gave Wendolyn only the polite nod of a veteran visitor. 

Wendolyn’s phone buzzed. She jumped and checked it. Just one of the nurses again, asking about the police officer. Someone joked about whether he was single. 

Wendolyn took a deep breath.

“Ed, is it?” Wendolyn said, breezing into his room. His eyes blinked. “Ed, can you tell me the names of your children?”

Ed’s forehead crinkled under the pale hospital room lights. “Kids,” he croaked. “No…” He cleared his throat. “Just…a nephew.”

His face brightened and his gaze grew more focused as he took Wendolyn in, sweeping over her body once, twice. She guessed he was still on the good pain meds from surgery; the agony would come later. It was the best time to chat.

“A nephew,” Wendolyn said, bracing. “And, he lives with you?”

“No.”

Her shoulders slumped in relief.

“Not anymore. I mean, not all the time. My sister comes to my place sometimes when she…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Family stuff.”

“Ah,” Wendolyn said. She hesitated, then sat in the chair next to Ed. She didn’t have time to interrogate him, and it wasn’t part of her job. Still, if there was a kid… “Ed, you’ve been in the hospital more than a day now. Is your nephew home right now? At your place? With the animal?”

She saw the gate crash over his expression, the defiance and denial snap into place. “Everyone’s fine,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to her,” he said fiercely. “It’s not anyone’s business but my own. And I got land up north, I just need to close on it, if the bank would get it together. She gets frustrated, not having the space. Tigers aren’t—” His mouth snapped shut again, brain catching up with his tongue. “Never mind,” he said. “I want some water.”

The police officer would be back soon, and Ed would connect the dots on the kind of trouble he might be in. Wendolyn herself didn’t fully understand it, but she knew enough to know that whatever information was to be had from Ed was to be had before he spotted the uniform.

“That’s fine,” Wendolyn said. “I don’t care about what you’re doing with her. It’s none of my business. I’m a nurse. I just want to know if your nephew is going by the place. Does your sister know you’re in the hospital?”

Ed’s mouth opened and shut. Wendolyn knew he had provided no emergency contacts, had been aware enough and cagey enough during intake to not give any identifying details, including insurance.

“Look,” Wendolyn said, glancing at the door and pulling out her phone, “just call her, okay? I just want to make sure the kid doesn’t go there.”

Ed looked dubiously at the phone. After a moment, he took it.

“Can I…uh…privacy?” he said. Wendolyn moved to the door. She heard the ringing as she shut it behind her.

After a minute, Ed signaled to her, and Wendolyn came back inside. He had looked calm throughout the conversation, but Wendolyn could see now his jaw working, the way he handed back the phone with something like disdain.

“Everyone okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said. “Your boyfriend texted.”

Wendolyn glanced down. She hurriedly typed in her passcode. She had barely identified the swell in her chest as hope before she opened her texts and it was dashed.

Well, I have my answer, I guess, Peter began. Can’t say I’m surprised. I’m going to come get my stuff. I’ll be fully out by the time your shift ends, and you won’t have to deal with me anymore. Have a nice life, Wendolyn.

Her stomach dropped. That wasn’t the agreement. The ultimatum gave her time, precious hours to think things through, to make a decision. She was going to apologize. She needed Peter to understand her side, to see how she thought about it before they both just blew up their life. It wasn’t fair.

Another text. Wendolyn fled to the hall, frantically swiping back to her messages. But this one wasn’t from Peter. It was from a local number, not saved in Wendolyn’s phone.

I don’t think I can make it another couple hours.

Another buzz.

Uncle Nathan, I’m scared.

Rage, white hot, shot through Wendolyn, drowning out all other thoughts. She called the number.

“Hello?” she heard. It was impossible to make out the age of the voice; it could have been four or twelve. Mostly it was drowned out by rattling and thumping in the background. “Uncle Nathan?”

“What is your address?” Wendolyn said.

A pause.

“This is the police,” Wendolyn said, realizing as she spoke the words that she was violating some sort of law, but not having the brain space to worry about it. “I need your address so we can get you safely out of there.”

Another pause. A snarl, and a scream. Wendolyn jumped. Her hand began to shake. “Um,” the voice said, and her knees buckled. The kid was still there. “Will you kill her?” He began to cry. A second later he began, “317 West…”

She had him repeat it twice as she wrote it down on her hand and told him to stay on the line. The other nurses had noticed something amiss. Her supervisor offered up her phone, which Wendolyn dialed 9-1-1 into and handed back, along with the address and a scribbled note. She felt as though she were moving in a dream.

At some point, the police officer was back, looking red-faced and disoriented. He took Wendoyln’s phone from her and began talking in jovial, clipped tones.

Wendolyn collapsed onto a nearby bench. One of the techs asked her something, but she didn’t even have the energy to listen.

A kid. A kid alone in an apartment with a tiger.

Rage roused her again. Wendolyn stood and strode back into Ed’s—no, Nathan’s—hospital room. He took one look at her expression and scrambled ineffectually to sit up.

“Hey,” he said, eyes narrowing, “I checked and everything is fine, it’s—”

“He’s alone in there.”

“You tricked me,” Nathan said. He winced. His swollen face had turned a deep purple-black, making him look cartoonish and not quite human. “He’s been there before. He knows what to do. Zelda won’t bother him.”

“He texted me that he’s scared.”

Nathan grew still and very quiet. Wendolyn watched as he processed this information, thoughts racing plainly across his face. When he spoke, he merely said, “Are they going to arrest me? Will they kill her?”

“No questions about your nephew?”

Nathan scowled. “He’ll be fine. He’s been with her before. Zelda knows him.”

“Zelda knew you too, didn’t she? Before you got mauled?”

“That was my fault. She was hungry, and I got held up, missed a feeding. I fed her before I came to the hospital. She’s bored, that’s all.”

Never in her life had Wendolyn been so tempted to strike someone. A smart slap upside the head, like her grandmother used to do when she watched them all in that leaning ranch in Monroe while her mother worked.

“If anything happens to that kid,” Wendolyn said, leaning down lower, “I will personally inject you with the most painful, lethal cocktail of meds I can find in this hospital.”

“I’m telling my lawyer that,” Nathan snapped.

“Good.” She was shaking. A small part of her conscience whispered that she was being stupid, playing vigilante to feel big instead of powerless. But a bigger part of her didn’t care. A bigger part of her just wanted Nathan to feel the weight of what he had done, to feel some sliver of the terror he had inflicted on his nephew.

“They’re going to kill her, you know that?” Nathan said. His fists balled up. He began grabbing at the white waffle blanket draped over him, kneading it between his hands. “I raised her since she was a baby. She didn’t have anybody. Just chucked in a cardboard box. The guy I got her from said he was going to smother her, you know that? If no one bit.”

“You mean if no one bought her.”

“What would you have done?”

“Give it to a zoo. To a sanctuary.”

Nathan’s face pulled back in a snarl. “I nursed her. I fed her milk for months by hand. Bought her meat when she was bigger, made toys she could play with, kept her mind active. I was going to get her a place up north, somewhere she could roam free. I did everything right. I studied all about raising them.” He plunged his finger into his knee to emphasize the point, one time, two times. “No one could have done it better.”

“You raised a tiger in an apartment.”

“I loved her. She loves me. I’m the only family she knows.”

“You kept her locked up in a tiny room and pretended that was what was best for her,” Wendolyn said. She wanted to wipe that stupid, pugnacious look off of his face. She hated that he was so convinced of his own truth, of his own righteousness. “How’d you control her? You put her in restraints? A cage?”

“Never.”

“So you just put your nephew at risk whenever he was over. He could’ve gotten scratched, or bitten, or—”

“She’s declawed.”

He smirked when Wendolyn went still.

“Declawed,” she said slowly.

“Yup. Like I said, not a threat to anyone. She’s a sweet girl. She—”

“You remove part of the toe to declaw,” Wendolyn said. “You get a vet to do that?”

The expression on Nathan’s face turned vicious again. His fingers twitched. “I was more gentle than a vet could ever be,” he said. “She wasn’t in pain, I made sure of that.”

“You self-centered lunatic,” Wendolyn said. “You—”

“Ahem—Wendolyn, is it?”

Wendolyn spun, to see two officers in the doorway. She felt the blood pulsing just beneath her skin. She was ready to strangle her patient. Maybe they sensed that.

“The boy?” she said.

“Safe,” the officer on the right said. She stood, legs shaking. Nathan said something she didn’t catch and didn’t try to as she stumbled from the room.

“My God,” Wendolyn’s supervisor said. “What a night. Glad this shift is over.”

Feeling like a zombie, Wendolyn floated out to the parking lot. Peter was leaning against her car.

Wendolyn’s purse grazed her hip as she stopped short. 

She watched, almost as through a television screen, as Peter straightened, one hand smoothing back his hair. He pulled a crumpled bag off the top of her car.

“Breakfast,” he said gruffly. The I’m-open-to-making-amends-if-you-are voice. “Figured you’re probably hungry.”

That was her cue. Take the bagel and make some innocuous comment about the weather, or their plans that weekend, or something from the store they needed to pick up. Get back into the rhythm of a relationship, and address the fight later, when cooler heads prevailed, and they could each give an apology that spared their egos. I’m sorry, but…

“You alright?” Peter said. “You look exhausted. Here, take it. I’ll make dinner reservations for us later—”

“No.”

Now Peter froze. She watched the emotions flit across his face as she waited for herself to go back to the script. As they both waited for her to. The silence stretched on.

“Look,” he said, “I’m an idiot. I love you, and—”

“That’s not love,” Wendolyn said. She got in her car and shut the door. As she gripped the wheel, she flexed her fingers, imagining claws extending and retracting.

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Header photography and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson