My patients’ families were usually there to see them through and take over the dark festivities as soon as I administered my juice, but Big Jim’s daughter was a no show. All I got was a note on his front door which said she got called into work and would be by after I left. Must be a hell of a place to work.
With my bag empty, I gathered my things, tipped my cap at the big man and headed to the door. Until I jumped at the sound of a phone ringing on the kitchen table. I looked over to the cell phone resting next to Big Jim and considered answering it for a second before turning away.
I was just about at the door when second sound paused me in my steps. A light meow followed up with a soft brush upon the leg of my trousers kept me inside. I looked down to see a creamy, orange tabby cat rubbing up against my calf.
For some reason the animals my patients left behind always seemed to hit me the hardest. I bent down to pet the cat. Checked the collar. His name was Steve. I gave Steve a few more pats before I stepped out the door with faint tears in my eyes. I’m not made of stone, I swear.
There was a time when I was controversial, but society swayed heavily in my favor the past two decades. There used to be debate about whether or not I should go to prison, whether or not I was a murderer, but now I had to turn down interviews because I no longer had the time or need for positive press as opposed to ducking reporters day in and day out. Never saw that coming.
The world was a different place and I was now allowed to help terminally ill people like Big Jim die comfortably in peace in their own homes and no longer had to fend off death threats and 20/20 hack jobs while doing it. Putting Big Jim to rest on a rainy Wednesday morning was just business as usual for me now.
Well, that’s what I thought.