The Beast of Barcroft Read Online Free PDF

wrestling match between the two dogs, but any exercise was good exercise, Jim had told him. The big man waved and Ben stopped the car in the road. He rolled down the window.
    Jim’s ever-present grin faded when he leaned in and saw Ben’s face.
    “You look like shit, brother.”
    “I didn’t sleep much last night.” Ben furrowed his brows as a buttress against tears. When he knew his voice would be steady, he added, “Bucky was killed last night.”
    “What the fuck? Come on, pull over.”
    Ben obeyed. He explained what had happened and Jim coaxed him out of the car and into the house for dinner.
    He went through the whole ordeal again, this time for Lisa, as she made them a huge southern meal of chicken and potatoes. Ben picked at his. When Jim went to let the dogs out again, she told him that he needed to eat.
    “It’s not the food, I just—”
    “No, I get it,” she said, and patted his hand. “It’s okay.”
    “No, it’s not that. I…may have flushed my antidepressants down the toilet last night.”
    “You what?”
    “Is that dumb? That’s dumb, right?”
    “That was pretty damn stupid, Ben, yes.”
    “It seemed like the thing to do at the time. On a scale of one to ten, how bad are we talking?”
    “It’s a ten, and ten equals calling your doctor and getting more.”
    “Seriously? Can’t I just ride it out?”
    “It’s called antidepressant discontinuation syndrome and you can feel like shit.”
    “I already feel like shit.”
    “Like the flu?”
    “A little bit.”
    “Congratulations, moron.”
    Ben looked at his uneaten food. “Here’s the thing. Rachel wasn’t ‘for better or worse’ material. I know that now. But Bucky was. I don’t want to tune out for this. Does that make sense?”
    “So wean then.”
    “Look, I already did it and I’m in the middle of it, so why not keep going?”
    “Jesus, you men are so fucking stubborn.”
    “Look, can you not tell Jim I was on happy pills?”
    “You’re so cute, thinking he doesn’t know already.”
    “How does he know?”
    “Because I told him.”
    “But you’re a nurse.”
    “I’m a nurse, not your nurse. And I’m your neighbor.”
    “Well, shit.”
    “Eat your food.”
    —
    The next day at work, Ben bolted upright from his chair. He felt a sudden, dull pain radiating from his chest to his back. His heart raced and he found it difficult to breathe. He cursed himself. Lisa was right and now he was having a heart attack. But instead of calling for help, he felt an overpowering desire to
move
. He raced to the stairwell and pounded down five flights of stairs to the lobby and did not stop until the chill November air cooled his head, which throbbed with heat. It was midafternoon and the lunch crowds had already moved on, so he had the sidewalk mostly to himself. He loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his shirt and took great, gulping breaths of cold November air. It felt sharp in his lungs, as if his body were resisting it. The wind chilled his face and neck. He touched his fingers to his brow. They came back wet.
    He leaned against a tree and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths. As he did, he watched a few passersby out for coffee or heading to the Metro. The wind whipped leaves down the street and the sun was low in the sky, too low for the hour. He dreaded this time of year. Eventually, his heart rate slowed and his fear abated. When he calmed down, he realized two things. First, it was incredibly stupid to leave a building, populated with coworkers and telephones, for the street if he was having a heart attack. Second, he figured the more likely culprit was not a heart attack but a panic attack.
    It felt so real,
he thought. He had believed he was going to die, that his heart was about to pop like a balloon. He walked back to his building and took the elevator back to his floor. Once seated in his cubicle again, and confident that no one had seen him make a spectacle of himself, he did a search for the symptoms