The Wrong Side of Midnight is a short story about a fateful Friday night shift in a Los Angeles area emergency room. It became the basis of my first novel, The Bleed.
A short story
There was blood on the floor, mostly dried but still tacky enough in spots to stick to the bottom of a shoe. The worn linoleum bore evidence to this fact, decorated as it now was in swirled, geometric, and cobbled patterns, representing the shoe preferences of the various individuals who had walked through the area since the mess was made.
‘Work like a dog’. ‘Dog tired’. ‘In the dog house’. ‘A dog-eat-dog world’. Common expressions I hear all the time to describe what must be an almost unbearable existence, a life of toil, fear, and retribution. A life unlike that of any of my pals.
At some other time or in some other place I suppose those descriptors might be, or have been, accurate. But in my neighborhood nothing could be farther from the truth. My pals and I are chronically unemployed, we get tired chasing one another around the park and squirrels around our back yards, our house is the same as our owner’s house, with certain accommodations to ensure maximum comfort and convenience, like the doggy door, and we get two square meals a day, neither of which contains even trace amounts of dog—though I understand that sort of thing is popular in Asia, (remind me not to go there.)