It was lying on that cot, exhausted, drifting into sleep when I realised I needed to get a name of someone about my age who died. I needed to claim to belong to some rescue organisation from somewhere else.
When I woke up, I went to the Portapotty or whatever it is called. I remembered a girl who died at the age of fourteen. I thought of using her name as my identity, then realised I could go to a cemetery, go grave to grave, get a name like Angel, instead of Doris Blumberger, the girl who died.
As I considered, I recalled one of the other emergency worker talking about their ad hoc rescue squad which always came when there was an emergency, be it fire, floor, storm, whatever. I invented a similar group from somewhere else, somewhere far enough away, but not that far, a place I hadn’t heard named.
I’d claim I had been in this city on that day for personal reasons. And as soon as I heard the news, rushed over.
I would fill my life with bits from other people’s lives. People I had known decades ago.
I went to work, and then, at the end of the day, when we weren’t needed, Cord said that he’d be moving on.
I suppose my face spoke.
“You ever go fishing?” He asked.
“Nope…but I’d like to.” I replied.
He smiled; “I was hoping you’d say that.”