This is part of an ongoing series typed in the hospital on my iPad during my stay for an infected cat bite.

The ambulance arrived ten minutes early for my transfer.

They let me climb onto the fancy gurney and strap me in. The Easton Squad paramedics were jovial despite the fact that they had been working for almost six hours—the halfway point of their shift—and the truck had been full non-stop. I think they said I was call #16.

I pointed out that is what the full moon.

“Don’t say that,” he replied.

“But it’s true,” I said.

He looked it up on his phone.

“You’re right,” he said.

I didn’t tell him I was a witch so it’s my spiritual obligation to observe the full moon.

Getting wheeled out of an ambulance through the hospital was a strange feeling. And a woman joined us in the elevator with an egg salad sandwich. It was 3 pm and I had a small pastry at 6 am. My companions hadn’t had lunch either.

We were all staring at the egg salad sandwich. It was awkward for me because I hate egg salad but I was thinking about it anyway.

“They didn’t feed you?” my ambulance guardian said.

“I might need surgery,” I replied. “So my lunch was ginger ale. It was a lovely ginger ale. The perfect temperature.”

They rolled me into my room and dropped me off. I overheard them tell the charge nurse that I was “a lovely little lady.”

“But she did upset me,” I heard a voice say. “She told me it was the full moon.”

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