ASUNDER (I) : tmr newt

13: I'm Discovering

13 Leo

Being a Med jack is significantly less work than I had assumed it would be. Surprisingly among dozens upon dozens of boys, none of them require medical assistance. When I woke up this morning, I had expected that today we would not be doing inventory, as that is all we had managed to do yesterday. Unfortunately, I was wrong to assume that.

"There are five syringes of grief serum," I tell Jeff, peering through the cupboard.

"Five?" He asks from behind. "Did you double check?"

"This will be the third time today I've double checked." My voice is low and muffled by the wood of the cabinets, and I'm glad he doesn't seem to hear me.

I can't tell if that's too snarky. It's not very often someone gets to decide who they are, and since I have only just begun to exist, I have been presented with that opportunity. Am I quiet and withdrawn like the little girl? Or am I brash and angry like Michelle?

I hope I am neither of those things. If I could be anyone, I would want to be Dawn. She seems like a beacon of light, and we are all flies drawn into her. Unfortunately, I know I am not like her. She doesn't have a care in the world for anything at all, and I am not as adventurous as she is.

I can't know if I like myself yet, because I don't know who I am. Soon I am sure I will figure it out, but for now I am stuck swimming in lukewarm water.

"Double check," he suggests, and I can tell it isn't an order. "What else are you going to do?"

"Fair enough, I guess." I answer.

One, two three, four, five.

That's one thing I know I can do. Count. Up and down, down and up. There are five containers of grief serum no matter which way you spin it. Though I don't know that I am going to have to use one anytime soon. I doubt I will have to do anything.

That's something I am not, lazy. Easily bored as well, but I wouldn't actively seek adventure. I'm not as perfect as Dawn anyway. She seems to be the ideal person.

"Five." I turn around to face him, leaning on the cupboard lightly.

"It should be six." He tells me.

"You think someone stole the Grief serum while were on lunch?" I ask. "You're numbers wrong, it wasn't six yesterday."

"Clint!" Jeff screeches. "How many syringes of grief serum are there?"

A pause echoes through the Homestead. We are the only three Med-jacks, and during the day everyone else is out working. Now I can see why nobody else is a Med-jack; there is nothing to do here.

"What?" I can hear Clint through the flimsy walls of this house.

"How many syringes of grief serum are there?" Jeff shouts back, so loud I think the walls may shatter.

I wait in the silence after his words.

"Five," Clint's voice echoes back.

"Clint?" Jeff yells again.

Another pause.

"What?"

"Your fives look like sixes. That's poor penmanship." Jeff yells back.

I hear feet stomping up the stairs. The door opens.

"They do not," Clint protests, talking the clipboard out of Jeff's hands. He scans the sheet and then stares at the numbers. "They do not. Maybe we should check out your eyesight."

"Maybe we should see if you have arthritis and that's why your penmanship looks like klunk," Jeff retorts.

I've heard it maybe a dozen times now, but I've still got no idea what the word klunk means. Maybe I shouldn't add observant to the list of things I am. It seems like a good idea anyway.