The Overnight

He glanced again at the suit, draped as always over the back of the loveseat she’d always called the sofa until the day she’d granted him full custody.

The lines, the fabric of both the Men’s Wearhouse two-button charcoal basic and the mocha couch were pristine and perfect: The suit straight from Millington Same-Day Dry Cleaning, the loveseat from willful disuse. It had simply filled a gap in the living room feng shui – snuggling had never been their love language, and entertaining had never been their meat.

It was a form with neither physical nor metaphorical function. Until he’d adopted it as an open-air armoire. He’d considered the bedroom closet or at least the unused bed, but after five years with the EMS, he compulsively needed his gear at hand. One could argue – and outsiders frequently did -- that there no longer was any true urgency, even on-call. He didn’t argue. It wasn’t an argument, or indeed a topic, most outsiders actually wanted. And his response would simply have sounded portentous.

When he’d first swapped his uniform and jump bag for the 38L summer worsted (the black winter wool was on hiatus in the master closet), he’d tried sleep. It had never been a problem grabbing a few at the House, between calls – adrenalin came with the call. Here, there was no real biochemical hotshot, and his brain’s ETA usually lagged his body’s.

He bought a smart TV, suited up, and began grazing the streams for old classics, bingeable sitcoms, some Wan or Peele or Flanagan that might supply the necessary adrenalin. But disrupted, unrequited viewing sent him out into the night irritable and empathetically anemic, as wrinkled as his Sunday pants.

In the end, the answer was YouTube, with a Colbert or Fallon chaser depending on where the day – and his father -- had left him. It was 1:13, Rami Malek had beaten Jimmy in Giant Beer Pong, and he’d run through the 63 DC Easter eggs to be found in the new Superman, Rhett and Link’s “Will It Fajita?” and “Will It Waffle?” experiments, ten (more) reasons to stay the fuck out of Antarctica, and a roundup of Buc-ee’s jerky menu. He thumbed the Mute button as the alert tone sounded like the Nazis deciding to take another run at London, glanced at the text, and donned his road duds.

**

Dying sucks, but then it’s done. All but the waiting. And the waiting is agony. Whether on a weedy berm surrounded by torn metal and fiberglass and cops or in a shabby room that smells like body liquids and Pfizer and decay getting an early start on things at 3 a.m. with what an hour ago was Mom or Dad haggling in a no-win deal with Death.

That was why, if he’d ever cared to argue it. He’d certainly been through the drill himself enough times.

This one was Mom. “I almost couldn’t call,” whispered the woman, herself on the raw end of 60 or 50 or maybe just 40 after too many sleepless nights the last few nights or weeks or months. It was simply too bright in the living room, as if she’d tried to exorcise Death, who in the human mythos always seem to dwell in shadows. “I sat there for like 15 minutes with the phone in my hand, just staring at your number. Like, I don’t know, like I thought something would happen, hoped something would happen, change. I don’t know what. Shit.”

“Well, it’s done now,” he murmured with a trained smile. “Can I get you anything? Some water? Some coffee…?”

She looked up, blinked, as if it were a monumental decision. “Um, no. I’m, uh, I’m fine.”

He tilted his head toward the hall. “Well, if it’s all right, I need to see to a few things. Would you prefer to accompany me —?”

“Oh, no, no. You do what you need. Thanks.”

“OK, then. You just relax, and we’ll try to make this as easy as possible.” He turned at the mouth of the hallway. “My associate should be here any minute to help us transport your mother. Have you called your mother’s physician yet? Dr. Hancock? I’m authorized to verify death, but the family doctor needs to make the formal pronouncement and file a death certificate within 72 hours. Would you prefer I make the call?”

She peered momentarily at the 51-inch blank screen opposite the vintage recliner into which shed stumbled, then at the man in the suit. She nodded, curtly.

“I won’t be long.”

Three doors along the short corridor. The last cast a near-white rectangle on the fly-specked, palm-smudged opposite wall. Some douse the light, confine Death to the shadows. Others flood the shadows where Death might linger. But, then, that was simply the conjecture of one who had perhaps too much time to conjecture on the light and the dark and life and death, he mused.

The woman’s eyes were open – it wasn’t uncommon, and he’d become immune to it early on. His father had introduced his sons to Death not as a cold, revelatory plunge into the depths, but transactionally, as he would a business associate to be tolerated if not altogether trusted. He retrieved the gloves from his inside jacket pocket, and got to it…

Terry was a few minutes late with the van, again not atypical, which was fine, actually perfect. There was the paperwork, all the details, half the pre-arranged plans the daughter’d forgot long ago and he preferred to do that one-on-one, quietly, patiently, respectfully. The dead required two backs, two sets of hands; the bereaved didn’t need double-teamed at this fragile juncture. She retired to the small, adjacent kitchen while the brothers rolled the gurney out, and when he returned to extend the formal amenities, she was back on her well-used couch with a glass, and he couldn’t fault her. There was time for God later, and it might take her awhile to want to make that call.

**

City of Millington Ordinance No. 32-102:

Regulation of Post-Mortem Response and Body Removal in Non-Suspicious Natural Deaths

**Section 1: Purpose**

This ordinance establishes procedures for the verification and removal of deceased individuals in cases of expected, non-suspicious natural death, including hospice care, within the City of Millington.

**Section 2: Definitions**

- *Expected Natural Death*: A death occurring from known medical conditions under active care, including hospice, with no signs of trauma or foul play.

- *Authorized Responder*: A licensed EMT, paramedic, or funeral home staff member designated by a registered mortuary service.

- *Pronouncement of Death*: The formal declaration of death by a licensed medical professional or, under specific conditions, an Authorized Responder.

**Section 3: Verification and Pronouncement**

- In cases of Expected Natural Death, an Authorized Responder may verify death based on observable post-mortem signs (e.g., absence of vital signs, rigor mortis, lividity).

- If the deceased was under hospice care or had a documented terminal condition, the Authorized Responder may contact the attending physician or hospice nurse for verbal pronouncement.

- The attending physician must file a formal death certificate within 72 hours.

**Section 4: Body Removal Authorization**

- Upon verbal pronouncement and verification, the Authorized Responder may initiate body removal to a licensed funeral home.

- No coroner notification is required unless signs of trauma, neglect, or suspicious circumstances are present.

- A burial transit permit is not required for intra-county transport.

**Section 5: EMT Role and Licensing**

- EMTs with active licensure may serve as Authorized Responders under contract with licensed mortuary services.

- EMTs may not independently pronounce death but may act as verifying agents and transport personnel under this ordinance.

**Section 6: Recordkeeping**

- All removals must be documented with time of verification, name of pronouncing authority, and transport destination.

- Records must be retained by the mortuary service for a minimum of five years.

**Section 7: Enforcement and Penalties**

- Violations of this ordinance may result in fines up to $1,000 and suspension of mortuary service license.

William Grady had never been or even endeavored to appear enthusiastic about his son’s impetuous decision to attend the living rather than the dead of Millington who had served three generations of Gradys so well. But while Bill all but broke out a celebratory bottle after the disastrous call that had prompted the youngest Grady to leave the EMS behind, he quickly realized Grady and Sons had now scored a twofer. As no official county or state actions had followed the incident, and any notion of his culpability were purely his own, his EMT license remained in force. Bill tended to pair him with Terry on the overnight schedule, as his middle brother generally brought little more than a back and two arms to the table.

Which was fine, too. The Grady boys played what seemed a perpetual waiting game, through two heart attacks, a stroke, testicular cancer and its remission, and a golf-related melanoma that seemed to be playing its own leisurely game. Robbie patiently awaited the keys to the kingdom, such as it was. Randy and Terry awaited the blessed release that only Death – Bill’s – might theoretically bring.

Their baby brother simply waited, for now back in his sweats in the dark, suit draped and cooling over the loveseat, a minimart Starbucks sweating on the table at his elbow, VSauce’s Michael exuberantly outlining how to bring about human extinction with a downloadable Ebola virus and a bioprinter.

He’d got through Robert deNiro’s seven most-hated actors and a subjective ranking of every KitKat available on a pre-Extinction Earth, and was halfway through the Mountain Dew countdown before the alert again sounded.

The app had been Robbie’s concept, hired out to some IT geek at the University as one of a series of bells and whistles designed to bring an antiquated and to a growing segment necessarily evil undertaking into the 21st Century. The vertical integration of the black suit/brass box local parlor was collapsing like a frat party Jenga tower, and the equivalent of an Olive Garden table pager for the newly bereaved seemed about the best Bill’s oldest could come up with.

The Grady’s app also offered a menu-driven preplanning estimator, and password-protected internal messaging between preplan clients and their designated rep (himself, Robbie, Randy, or Bill for the off-menu ‘platinum’ preplanners). He had to admit, while there was a slightly tacky aspect to the death pager, that ship had sailed with the billboard flight Robbie’d strategically placed off the Miilington PD’s top three Dead Man’s Intersections, and firewalled director-to-client communications had immeasurably improved his efficiency and – more importantly – his autonomy. Terry was Terry, and reliably unreliable. Robbie and Randy had graciously handed him off, assuming their little brother’s empathetic “weakness” was at play, and Bill didn’t care as long as folks kept dying and paying, in that order, with reasonable regularity.

For the time being, at least, roughly 8.5 out of 1,000 folks will cross the bridge annually. In a city of 150,000, an average 1,200 folks will leave the rolls each year. That means Millington may lose around 3.5 souls during a “perfect” day. Central Illinois temps had dipped after a record hot July, and flu season was at least three months off.

A fifth to a third of those souls depart somewhere between Kimmel’s closing credits and GMA’s opening jingle. Four homes divvy up Millington’s dead on a cumulatively more-or-less even basis. So on an average Wednesday overnight, any given Grady might expect 0.7 to 1.2 pickups. Statistically speaking, and business as usual.

It was 4:47. He suited up to exceed Old Bill’s expectations.

**

“Ronnie!”

He choked back the impulse to pop Grace Pniewski in the nose. Not because she was a woman – Grace had proven both out of rookie necessity and sheer meanness she could give as good as she theoretically would ever get. Not because Grace was wearing the uniform and, from the sheen of sweat across her broad forehead, had already had a rough enough evening.

His departure from the MFD Ambulance Squad actually had meant a seniority and eventually a rank bump for Grace, and they had never been partners or for that matter either friends or enemies. The promotion was legit and overdue – Grace loved the job, loved what it was.

And maybe that was it. He’d ditched rescuing the living for retrieving the dead. Or as likely, Grace was a country gal, and maybe it was just the suit and the nepo baby that triggered her contempt and the jabs. Robert and Randall and Terence had surrendered to Bill’s domineering infantilization long ago, but Ron, perhaps as the “baby,” rejected the old bastard’s passive-aggressive tyranny as he’d finally rejected his preplanned life.

He'd made the mistake of opening his baggage probably over a post-shift beer or five, and as a result, Grace now knew between which ribs to stick the knife. He took the jab for the trio huddled next to the gaunt, disconnected, disturbingly young body on the rented Hill-Rom bed.

“Hey, Ron,” Danner called softly as he packed his kit, having sensed the vibe. He didn’t look at his partner, and Grace shook her head. A second later, I heard the screen door slap shut. The boy’s parents neither jumped nor even seemed to notice the EMT’s disdainful departure, and my former partner sighed and signaled me to the front room. He eased the inside door shut. “Our third call tonight – kid had a DNR, and the family knows it, but I guess what do you do? So we did what we could do, which was pretty much jack shit. Mom was too fucked up to work that goofy app thing you guys got, so I made the call. Sorry to get you out so early. So late?”

He smiled. “Not a thing – on call all night. I was just guzzling caffeine and watching dumb videos. Thanks. I’ll try to get things moving and transport him as quick as possible.”

“Yeah, I think that would be great at this point,” Danner murmured, hoisting his gear with a peek back at the shadows shifting on the hallway wall. “Well.”

“Well.”

As he opened the front door, he spotted Grace caught in Terry’s headlights and Terry, as usual, calling a bit too loudly and way too cheerfully to the paramedic. Grace shouted something none too civil to Danner, and Ron adjusted his tie to greet the disconsolate living.

**

Terry thought breakfast was in order after such a hectic night, but by the time he dropped the boy and started processing Mrs. Bock, it would be about seven. As usual on a call like the Bocks’, Ron was ready and indeed needed desperately to crash.

Hospice deaths are generally expected, and autopsies rarely performed in those cases. Alice Bock had been perched on the precipice of Expected Natural Death three times over the last five years, then tap-danced back from the brink as if by design. Rachel Bock’s siblings meanwhile shuffled off to parts remote, and she’d shown up to the first preplanning conference looking ready to find her own precipice. As Rachel ventured down ever-darker corridors free of platitudes and course-correction, he shelved the Grady and Sons gilded, fully-equipped boilerplate pitch and cautiously proffered The Family Plan.

Ron had trotted it out perhaps a dozen times over the past few years, where sanity or family sanctity appeared at stake, and when it factored favorably against projected tangible and intangible home care costs. While it checked all the boxes under the Grady Quality Pledge, it also included one additional black box no other Millington home could or dared offer.

Surprisingly, he’d encountered precious little shock or revulsion, no threats of the law or the licensing board, certainly no buyers remorse after the fact. These were folks who’d lived for years with grinding pain and sacrifice, whose love and devotion had long ago atrophied or, like Rachel, had metastasized into something black and potentially devouring. If God’s seeming betrayal had shaken their faith, Death’s treachery was a malignancy gradually consuming the soul.

The plan, of course, was available exclusively to home caregivers. Palliative or hospice providers couldn’t and, Ron agreed, shouldn’t provide that final nudge over the precipice. But morphine administration wasn’t an exact science in the hands of an agonized spouse or son or daughter or mother or father, and mistakes and miscalculations happened in the dark or the glare. Under Ron’s skilled, personalized expertise, The Family Plan erased that margin for error or miscalculation while alleviating the lingering doubts or recriminations the bereaved might suffer.

And wasn’t that what it was all supposed to be about? Relieving the suffering of those left behind? Ron snorted as he replaced the summer worsted alongside the winter wool. He liked to believe so, but the bright “pop” of the Venmo alert brought him immediately back to Earth. It was about relieving his suffering, about freedom – to choose, to reassess, to rebuild, eventually to break bonds.

The neatly made queen bed beckoned, but Ron preferred to wait for the crash, and wandered back to the living room and the tepid dregs of his Mocha Latte and the TV paused and a Code Red Dew poised at Link’s lips.

He’d hoped to find Alice still floating unconsciously on a morphine cloud, but he couldn’t fault Rachel. From all accounts, Mrs. Bock’s will may well have been a match for medical science or even Death, at least without a second set of hands and a booster dose of some carefully and dispassionately applied science. Alice’s eyes followed Ron’s every movement, and if he’d seen alarm, defiance, terror in them, he might now be floating on his own cloud.

If Death ultimately proved Ron’s only escape, he wondered if Billy Boy would slip across with that same fixed gaze of amused disdain. The one even Death’s flight and the dark of midnight couldn’t douse.

He found the remote and settled In for the verdict…