To cover his medical school tuition, Thomas Merrick spent the summer juggling two jobs.
By day, he worked at LeClaire’s Market, a butcher shop where he wore a stiff white coat, stained with crimson and speckled with fat.
By night, he became someone else. At St. Ambrose Hospital, Thomas traded his cleavers for stretchers. As an orderly on the graveyard shift, his white coat was spotless, worn neatly over scrubs.
One night, well past midnight, he was summoned to prepare a patient for surgery. Room 216. Elderly woman. Appendectomy.
Thomas entered calmly, offering his usual gentle smile. He eased the gurney beside her bed and began helping the nurses ready her for the operating room. She was frail, her skin pale, her eyes half-closed yet faintly aware. As Thomas leaned over to secure the straps, something shifted.
Her eyes flew open—cloudy, but sharp with terror. She stared at him as though seeing death itself. Her lips quivered, and then, with sudden strength, she lurched upright and screamed with a voice full of raw panic:
“God help me! It’s the butcher!”