The Orderly

His hands had never trembled during surgery. Not even as a student had he felt shock or any sort of reverent awe at the sight of blood or exposed organs. His eyes didn’t widen with horror, cold sweat never broke across his skin, and his breathing always stayed steady. Even the supervisors had eyed him with suspicion during training rotations. And yet, he never did learn how to suture properly. Stitch by stitch, the torn flesh slowly knits itself back together. Tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, Mason does his honest best to keep the seam neat, carefully lining up each crude little cross — but the result is still a mess. Then again, his patients aren’t exactly vocal and tend to keep their complaints to themselves. “Sorry, buddy,” Mason mutters, offering a grim smile to the man across from him. “I did my best. Your fault, really. If you hadn’t been staring like that, maybe I could’ve stitched it a bit straighter.” He keeps his voice low, even though the dissection room is empty except for the two of them. You never know. The cameras record everything he does. Who’s to say they haven’t figured out how to pick up sound too? If they had, he’d have been sent to therapy ages ago—for inappropriate interaction with “clients.” What kind of morgue tech goes around telling corpses all the forensic details of their death — straight from the pathologist’s mouth? The onlooker doesn’t lift his head, just slowly scans the body stretched out on the steel table, eyes drinking in every anatomical detail. He lingers over the chest—where a heart used to beat. “So, what’s so interesting?” Mason hisses. “The guy died from a blood clot. Quick and painless. Lucky, really. Not everyone gets that. Last week we got a girl in from a car wreck—she was a disaster. Took me hours to piece her face back together. No one pays me extra for that, by the way. I could’ve glued her up with Super Glue and passed her off to the makeup crew. But no—she rolled out of here looking damn near alive.” The onlooker lifts his eyes at last, staring at Mason with blank confusion. “I mean—yeah. I felt bad,” Mason explains, shrugging. “She was young. Looked so… pleading. Just had that expression. I’m sure she spent a lot of time on her appearance when she was alive, so I figured… might as well soften the landing.” The man nods, seemingly understanding, then turns back to the body. Sadness flickers across his tired face. “Oh, come on—don’t give me that look,” Mason blurts, forgetting to keep his voice down. “It happens to everyone. Sooner or later. This guy? Later. Almost ninety. I’m not even hoping to make it that far. And if he’d just signed a waiver, we wouldn’t have had to cut him open in the first place. But no—gotta make our lives harder.” He throws up his hands in theatrical frustration, glaring at the silent observer. The man says nothing, still staring at the corpse. Mason finishes the last of his work, covers the old man with a white sheet, and shifts him onto the transfer table. No need for embalming—the funeral is in three days, right on schedule. Tomorrow he’ll dress the body in the standard burial set, the makeup crew will touch up the face, make him look a little fresher, and then they’ll hand him off to the family. After that, he’s someone else’s problem. Just one last thing—get the body into one of the fridge drawers, and then he can head home. Game of Thrones won’t rewatch itself for the fourth time. “Hey, four-eyes!” a raspy voice calls out just as Mason reaches the elevators. “Wait up!” Mason speeds up, shoving the gurney between the metal doors. His fingers jab the button for the basement floor. “You asshole,” Alex mutters, slipping in after him. “I told you to wait. What the hell’s your problem trying to ditch me?” “I’m in a hurry,” Mason grumbles. “It would’ve come back for you in five minutes. You’re thirty-two, not ninety—you weren’t gonna drop dead waiting for the elevator.” “Yeah? And you’ve clearly got a death wish. Always picking fights. What’s your deal, Eight-Seven?” Mason flinches, like he’s been slapped. He’s hated that nickname since high school. How the hell did the guy who came up with it end up his coworker? Life’s a heartless bitch. “Don’t call me that.” “Oh, come on. It’s just us in here,” Alex says, arms spread like a peace offering. Mason glances at the observer, clearly disagreeing with Alex’s last comment. The elevator suddenly feels way too small—and the ride, unforgivably long. “Hey, May, you wanna come out with us Friday? Bar night,” Alex asks, stepping out as the doors slide open. “With us who?” Mason replies, wary. That’s three nicknames in one conversation. He lets this one slide. “Everyone. We all need to blow off steam once in a while, with the kind of work we do.” “Never seen any of you actuallytense up,” Mason snorts. “Either way, I’m busy Friday.” “Let me guess—shower, porn, and Japanese anime?” Alex grins, full Hollywood charm. Jerk. That’s almost word-for-word my actual schedule. “Still a better time than hanging out with morons,” Mason mutters, scowling. “Years go by and you’re still the same, Eight-Seven,” Alex says with a sneer. “Still a freak. Hope you cleaned that old guy’s colon properly.” “Why don’t you kiss his ass and find out?” Alex just waves a hand in dismissal and strolls off down the corridor.

***

Body delivered, paperwork filled out, tools disinfected. Mason gives himself a silent pat on the back for a job well done, takes a long shower to scrub off the scent of the dissection room, and heads home without saying goodbye to anyone. The steps never change—just like his bus route. Three stops. Fifty-four steps to the building. Forty-eight stairs up, and there it is: a battered door with a little plaque that reads17. “Mason!” Ithan beams from the hallway, practically bouncing in place. He’s been waiting. “Welcome back! Want me to make you some tea?” “Very funny,” Mason mutters, cramming his feet into worn house slippers. “Wanna hear a joke?” “If I say no, will that actually stop you?” His legs are already carrying him toward the kitchen, hands flipping on the lights as he goes. “Ithan Petrelli—barely seventeen, ! ,” the boy announces with dramatic flair, “ and somehow already twenty!” He bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach. “That’s not even a joke,” Mason mutters, scanning the fridge shelves. He grabs a pot of soup—about the only option—and sets it on the counter. “That tea line of yours was funnier. Not by much. And you’ve worn it out over the last three years.” “How was work?” Ithan flops into a chair, watching Mason’s every move. “Who’d you gut today?” Mason pours the soup into a bowl and sticks it in the microwave. Then starts hunting for a cutting board. Somehow, it’s in the cabinet with the grains. He gives Ithan a skeptical look, shrugs, and pulls a loaf of bread from the bag. “Not in the mood to talk?” the boy presses. “Okay, fine—how about another joke—” “I don’t know his name,” Mason cuts him off, sharp. “Some old guy. Nothing interesting.” “Staring at walls all day—that’s what’s not interesting,” Ithan mutters. “Why won’t you let me come to work with you?” “Because my job sucks,” Mason snorts. “Fetch this, scrub that, fill out paperwork, then clean something else—repeat four hundred times. Sometimes I think I should’ve stuck with my original plan and become a librarian.” “I thought you wanted to be a pathologist.” ‘Wanted’ is a stretch. I just didn’t want to deal with live people, so I ended up in this pit. The only thing I reallywantis to shoot my veins full of tranquilizers. Everything else in my life? Not exactly driven by desire.” “Then why stay?” Ithan leans back, eyes dreamy. “We could go somewhere—anywhere. Somewhere it doesn’t rain all year.” “What’s the point?” Mason shrugs like a philosopher on his last nerve. “Same shit, just under a sunnier sky. I’m pushing forty—couple more years and I’ll be out of everyone’s way.” Ithan rolls his eyes with theatrical disdain. “You’re thirty-one. Your rounding skills are truly something to behold.” Mason coughs, nearly choking on his soup. Ithan starts to reach out and pat him on the back, but a warning look stops him cold. He yanks his hand back. “They gave you a hard time again?” Ithan asks quietly. “We’re not in high school,” Mason mutters, blowing on a spoonful of broth before slurping it. “Getting picked on is for zit-faced teenagers like you. Once you’re past thirty, it’s just… friendly teasing.” “Alex Tate, right?” Ithan won’t let it go. “That poser’s clearly got a thing for you.” Mason’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “If I didn’t know that was impossible, I’d think you were high.” “I mean, think about it. You’ve known each other for years. You work together. You’ve made itveryclear you don’t want to socialize, and he keeps bugging you anyway. Classic wounded male ego.” “By your logic, the entire morgue staff is secretly in love with me.” Ithan shrugs, hesitates—then says, “Why not? You’re… handsome.” Mason chokes again, harder this time. This time, Ithan doesn’t even pretend to move. “By what beauty standard are you operating?” Mason asks once he can breathe again. Ithan gives him a long, unreadable look. Then, without a word, gets up and walks out of the kitchen. Doesn’t even bother slamming the door. Mason delivers himself a mental slap and keeps chewing in silence. Dinner finished, Mason sits and stares at the empty bowl for a long, heavy moment. Wash it now? Or get up early tomorrow and deal with the mess then? With a quiet clink, the bowl joins five others in the sink. Shadows drift across the living room—which also doubles as a bedroom. Rain taps against the windowsill again. The air smells like ozone; Mason, as usual, forgot to close the window before leaving for work. He’ll pay for that soon enough, when the furniture starts to rot and he has to figure out how to afford replacements. Ithan sits on the floor, legs drawn in tight. His fair hair trembles slightly with each full-body sob. Mason lowers himself onto the couch, arms crossed over his chest. “Come on, don’t be such a kid,” he mutters. “You know I didn’t mean it.” Ithan nods but doesn’t stop crying. “Then why the tears?” Mason winces, leaning back into the cushions. His hand finds the remote. A red light blinks, and the room fills with cold blue light from the TV. “If you don’t cut it out, I’ll turn it off again tomorrow too.” The threat works like magic. Ithan jumps up, turning his tear-streaked face to Mason. His wide eyes flicker with panic. “Don’t.” “We’re gonna go broke on the electric bill,” Mason sighs. “There’s no money for it again this month.” “Maybe we could try—” “No,” Mason cuts him off. “But why?” Ithan climbs onto the couch, sitting back on his knees, studying Mason’s face. “People would pay for it. And you need the money.” “I said no.” His dark eyes flash with anger. Ithan flinches and backs down immediately, switching gears mid-breath. “What are we watching tonight?” he asks, too softly. “Game of Thrones. Season five.” “You’re a sadist, Mason Clark.” With a heavy sigh, Ithan turns to face the screen. Every now and then, when things got especially dull, Ithan would sneak a glance at Mason’s profile. The TV flickered in his glasses—reflections of a show he knew by heart. Those sharp eyes stayed locked on the screen, like he hadn’t memorized every scene. The tip of his long nose twitched faintly whenever he licked his dry lips. Stray strands of ragged bangs kept slipping beneath the frames, and Mason would rub his eyes with his fists, like a tired kid. For a guy in his early thirties, he didn’t look much older than Ithan. Until he opened his mouth. Mason’s tongue was razor-sharp. His mind, just as quick—but he hid it, for whatever reason, choosing to stay buried in a morgue job, hauling corpses instead of doing something more. And he had a temper. He never started fights, but if someone else lit the fuse, he was all in. And once Mason snapped, it took hours to come down—rewinding the argument over and over in his head, examining every word. Mason had a secret. A secret only Ithan Petrelli knew. Because Ithan Petrelli really was seventeen. And last week, he turned twenty. Ithan Petrelli died three years ago. And no one’s found his body yet. “Stop staring. You’re distracting me,” Mason says without turning his head. “Today, during the autopsy…” Ithan hesitates, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “Was anyone there?” “Old man came by to say goodbye to his body, if that’s what you mean.” “Did he say anything?” The ghost’s voice lifts, filled with quiet hope. “No.” Mason shakes his head. “They never talk.” “But you hear me,” Ithan presses. “Pretty sure your mouth never shut when you were alive,” Mason mutters. “And apparently, death didn’t fix that.” Ithan doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on something invisible near the ceiling. Truth is, the question nags at Mason too. Why is it that none of the others have ever spoken to him—not once—except for the boy who’s been haunting his apartment like a sullen roommate for the past three years? The others, he can get rid of, if only with effort—force of will, brute concentration. But this one? This one requires bribes and threats just to give him a moment of peace. And you can’t exactly drag a ghost around with you to places where even two living people would raise eyebrows. “Honestly, it’s probably for the best they don’t talk,” Mason drawls. “Visual hallucinations are more than enough for me.” “We’re not hallucinations!” Ithan’s cheeks tremble with offense. “Really?” Mason rolls his eyes. “You know how schizophrenia starts? It’s when you talk to yourself and someone answers. You, my friend, are Exhibit A in my descent into madness.” “Then where are your meds?” the boy challenges. “Meds are for people who want to get better,” Mason shoots back. “Why don’t you? Maybe if you stopped seeing dead people, your life would actually improve.” “From obsidian to onyx?” Mason presses his lips together, annoyed. “No more ghosts, but my brain turns to soup? What a deal.” “Then you’ll always be alone.” “I’m never alone,” Mason replies, hitting pause on the show. “I’m cursed to always be surrounded by strangers.” “I’m not a stranger.” Mason snorts. “You’re a stranger even to yourself. Beyond your name, you haven’t remembered a thing. And honestly, I’m pretty sure you just read that name off the gravestone I found you sitting next to.” Ithan flushes with outrage. “How dare you? I am Ithan Petrelli—the one and only!” Mason raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Not like there’s a body in that grave to prove me wrong.” “There’s nothing to prove!” Ithan jumps to his feet, looming over Mason, cheeks puffed out in pure indignation. Mason grins, flashing his canines. The truth is, he knows exactly who his ghost is. He just doesn’t see why it matters—and that’s exactly why he enjoys riling the kid up. He could call him Sparky or Fluffy and the boy wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it. Such a stupid argument. Such a stupid kid. Mason presses play and returns to the show. Ithan stands there a moment longer, eyes narrowed in righteous fury—then drops back onto the couch with a huff. The script for their evenings hasn’t changed in three years—and counting.

***

The woman looked fairly young—thirty, thirty-five at most. She had a wide face, a button nose, and large, protruding hazel eyes. Nothing about her appearance was off-putting, but she wasn’t exactly beautiful either. Just an ordinary woman, worn down by life. She hovered beside him, watching his every move, opening and closing her mouth in silence, waving her hands right in front of his face. Clark pretended not to notice her. Mason grimaced. He’d always preferred the ones who’d died of natural causes. At least they stood still, didn’t twitch or flail until his vision blurred. The victims of violent deaths, though—they rarely understood what had happened. They wanted answers. Demanded them. She’d taken quite a beating before the end. Bruises bloomed from her neck down to her thighs, painting her torso in sickly color. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, her skin looked almost translucent, making the marks even starker—like flowers blooming in a winter garden. Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head. The steel door to the autopsy room slammed shut. “All set?” Alex Tate strode toward the table with brisk confidence. “Cops’ll be here any minute.” In big cities, morgues are split into pathology and forensic departments. Juneau isn’t big enough for that. In this little Alaskan town, every kind of autopsy happens under the same roof. At least it’s a separate building—not tacked onto a hospital. Sure, they get every corpse dumped on their doorstep, but at least they don’t have to run into a hundred patients and grieving relatives every day. “All set,” Mason replied, avoiding his boss’s eyes. “You get the external report written up?” “Of course,” Clark nodded. Let’s not mention the fact that between the two of us, only you are actually paid as a forensic specialist, he thought bitterly. This is technically your job. He handed over the file, imagining, just for a second, how satisfying it would be to fling it straight into Alex’s smug face. “Not bad, Eight-Seven,” Alex whistled, skimming the report. “That’s quite the write-up on the mammary glands. Very… thorough.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mason snapped, snatching the folder back. “What’s wrong with it? Rounded, slack tissue, areolae pale brown, slight discharge when compressed—” “Okay, stop,” Alex interrupted, reclaiming the report. “I’m just surprised you even know that organ exists on a woman.” “The only organ I doubt the existence of is your brain.” “Where’s the rest of the external exam—the state of dress and everything?” Alex asked, unbothered, flipping through the pages. “Nothing to examine,” Mason grunted. “She was found completely naked.” His eyes flicked to the ghost. She was wearing a dark brown leather jacket, filthy jeans, and battered red sneakers—what she’d had on in life. But the girl they pulled from the edge of town yesterday had been wearing none of it. “Good,” Alex nodded, satisfied. “Something we can show the cops.” “Can we please just get started?” Mason groaned. “At this rate we’ll be here past lunch. When are they getting here, anyway?” As if on cue, the door to the autopsy room swung open, and two figures stepped inside. They wore matching snow-white lab coats. Their faces were hidden behind medical masks, hair tucked under surgical caps, eyes blank and unreadable. Even if Mason had wanted to picture them, he couldn’t have guessed their faces—or their age. He ignored their names, as usual. Alex began reading the report aloud, pointing now and then to the corresponding parts of the body. The officers’ eyes remained expressionless, but the victim’s ghost was another story. Her face, already anxious, shifted into something far more desperate as the report continued. Terror gave way to raw despair. “Small scalpel,” Alex said, holding out a hand. Mason flinched, jolted by the sudden cue. Conversation time was over. The autopsy had begun. Alex kept narrating in his calm, steady voice, explaining everything he saw for the officers’ benefit. Mason handed over the requested tools, cleared away the ones already used, and stole glances at the silent witness hovering at the table’s edge. Her mouth opened and closed in silent screams. Hands motioned frantically toward her abdomen, drawing circles in the air. Then her left arm stretched outward, while the right rose, bent across her chest—and she began cradling something invisible, rocking it in her arms, eyes rolling wildly. A wave of cold sweat washed over Mason. His heart kicked into a sprint. No, no, no. Don’t drag me into this, he thought, shaking his head, pleading silently. Don’t do this to me. Please. If you can plead with someone who can’t even speak. “Mister Clark,” snapped Alex, dragging Mason back to the room. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you please hand me the rib knife?” Mason swallowed hard. That was the third time the request had been made. He bit the inside of his cheek and started fumbling through the tray. Now the officers were glancing over, puzzled. “Don’t mind him,” Alex said smoothly, slicing into soft tissue. “He zones out a lot.” The girl’s face twisted in agony.She folded her hands in front of her, then dropped to her knees. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks. To hell with you, Mason swore in his head. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, bolting before his brain could catch up. Alex’s eyebrows shot up. “What?” He froze, knife suspended mid-air. “You’re joking, right?” “Left the iron on!” Mason shouted, stripping off his coat on the way out. “Get Tyler—he’s napping in the supply closet anyway!” “My apologies,” Alex mumbled to the officers. “Staff shortage. We do what we can.” The autopsy room door slammed shut behind Mason. Three heads turned to watch him go, baffled.

***

Twelve and a half miles from downtown Juneau lies the Mendenhall Glacier—a massive formation a mile and a half wide, complete with its own lake. Climbing the glacier is off-limits, but visitors can take in the view from a nearby center run by the U.S. Forest Service. The moment Mason realized the ghost wanted him to gothere,something twisted in his gut. Beautiful as the place was, it had a grim reputation. According to the stats, thirty to forty bodies are found there each year. The ghost waved her arms urgently, beckoning him to speed up. Everything about her said they were running out of time. Mason pushed his aging Ford for all it was worth, anxiety rising with every mile. Two hundred yards short of the main hiking trails, she gestured sharply—off the highway, down a forest road. The car jolted over ruts and potholes as they plunged into the trees. A few minutes later, a trailer park came into view. Mobile homes of all shapes and colors huddled in a clearing surrounded by towering, ancient forest. Mason cut the engine and stepped out into the drizzle. Cold rain crept under his collar, sending a shiver down his spine. He hadn’t bothered changing out of his rubber clogs, and they were already half-swallowed by the mud. All around, he heard drunken voices, the jangle of guitar strings, the hum of generators. The air reeked of urine, gas, and unwashed bodies—so thick it even overpowered the lingering stench of the autopsy room. The woman took off running, waving him forward with frantic gestures. Answering her silent call, Mason trudged after her, each step sinking deeper into the slushy, frozen muck. Eventually, he gave up, kicked off his clogs, and continued in nothing but his socks. The last trailer stood apart from the others, half-shielded by low-hanging branches. Its rusted body groaned with every gust of wind. The tires were half-buried in the earth, soft and deflated. Faded yellow headlights stared blankly at the world, their glass chipped and cracked. The driver’s seat sat empty. The ghost rushed to the dull gray door and began waving her arms in tense agitation. Of course it’s the creepiest damn trailer out here, Mason thought grimly, brushing her aside. Why wouldn’t it be? Fighting back his disgust, he banged on the door with both hands. Something shifted inside—rustling, a string of curses—then the door flew open, nearly clocking him in the face. Mason adjusted his slipping glasses and took in the man standing before him. Mid-forties, at least six and a half feet tall, face bloated, beard down to his chest, and fists the size of small appliances. Mason glanced at the ghost. You’ve got to be kidding me. She didn’t move. Just stared at the man in paralyzed horror. Bloodshot eyes scanned the clearing, hunting for the idiot who dared to interrupt his peace. Finally, the man’s gaze locked onto Mason. “And who the hell are you?” he barked, brows crashing together. Their eyes met. Mason watched the veins bulge in the man’s neck, saw fists clench, Adam’s apple twitch. His odds of surviving this felt roughly zero-point-zero. So, without thinking too hard, he blurted, “Do you believe in God?” Confusion barely had time to flicker across the man’s face before Mason launched forward in a single, desperate leap—and drove his fist straight into the solar plexus. The man gasped, folding to his knees. Mason didn’t hesitate. He brought his knee up hard into the man’s jaw. A sickening crack—and the brute hit the floor. Mason darted inside the trailer, eyes scanning fast. A guitar sat abandoned on the room’s only table. He grabbed it by the neck, spun around, and slammed it down on the man’s head just as he was trying to sit up. Strings squealed. Wood shattered. The man hit the floor again and stayed there. Mason tossed the broken instrument aside and turned—searching. The ghost sat curled in the far corner of the tight room, next to a massive black trunk. There was a heavy padlock on the lid. Mason rushed to the unconscious man, shoved a hand into his pockets, and rummaged through the mess. To his immense relief, he found a ring of keys amid the trash. Inside the chest, two tiny bodies lay crumpled together. Unconscious—but breathing. Mason checked each pulse in turn—then whooped with joy when his fingers found one, faint but steady, beneath thin skin. The girl looked up at him, eyes full of tears. Thank you, her lips silently formed. Mason shrugged, pulling out his phone. “Anytime.”