Spitting Image by Patrick LeClerc

you if it wasn’t important. I’m looking into things, making sure you’re not in danger, and I need to know.”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “This seems a little stalker-y.”
    “You’ve been with me in tough spots before. And I got us through. I need you to trust me. I know when to be paranoid. Actually, just tell me if you’re at the college.”
    I heard a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’m not at school. I’m safe. Far away.”
    “So you’re not at the school? And you weren’t there earlier today?”
    “No. This is my day off. You know that.”
    I didn’t hear any hesitation, any subtle attempt to fake a casual answer. She sounded genuinely surprised that I’d ask that.
    “We got a call at the school,” I said. “An anonymous, third party call for an emergency that wasn’t there. When we got there I saw you. Or somebody who wanted to look like you. I think it’s possible that the call was a fake to get me out there so I could see you and do something stupid.”
    “Really?”
    “You were walking into the library,” I said. “Call somebody who works in that building and check if they saw you. Who knows what else they wanted people to see you doing?”
    “Jesus,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
    “I’ll have to do something tomorrow. I’m stuck here for twenty-four. But this can’t go on. They’re just messing with me now. But there’s nothing to stop them walking into a bank with my face on, robbing the place and smiling at the security camera on the way out.”
    “Sean,” her voice softened. “I’m sorry. Please be careful. Do what you have to. Call me if you need my help.”
    “Thanks,” I said, the tightness in my chest easing a bit.
    “And take care of yourself.”
    “You too,” I replied, ending the call.
    I was still holding the phone, staring into space, when Pete returned from the bathroom.
    “You aren’t done writing up that run yet?” he asked. “Christ’s sake, it’s Ronnie. Just cut and paste the info from the last six times we took him this month.”
    “Sorry. Just preoccupied.”
    “No problem,” he said. “I got you. Let’s get out of here and try to grab some coffee before the city throws up on itself again.”

Chapter 11
    THE ALARM ON MY PHONE startled me awake. Quitting time. After lying down at 6:30, I’d fallen into a deep sleep, bone tired, mentally ragged and physically used up. I came up scrabbling to turn off the alarm, confused as to where I was, barely able to speak English.
    I sat up and looked blearily around. Pete was rolling up his sleeping bag. “You may want to get your wits about you before you go into the garage.”
    “Hrmmgh?” I inquired.
    “The Minute Man is here,” he smirked. “At six- fifty- nine on the dot, like the one way piece of shit he is. And he’s bitching about the state of the truck. I walked away because it was that or slap him.”
    I processed this, swung my feet over the side of the couch and waited a moment for the fog to clear. I didn’t want to talk to Adam Armstrong with anything less than a clear head. He had the kind of voice that made everything he said sound like “please punch me in the face,” and he was a Minute Man. Any EMT or medic who consistently punched in at the last minute. It’s considered disrespectful and basically a dick move. We’re an emergency truck. We can’t go home until we’re relieved, and if a call comes in at six-fifty-five, at the end of a twenty four hour shift in this busy, brutal, idealism grinding hole of a city, unless our relief is here we own it, and we get out late. Part of being a decent member of the band of misfits is showing up fifteen minutes to half an hour early so your comrades don’t get screwed. Armstrong never learned that.
    “What’s his issue?” I asked.
    Pete shrugged. “He was bitching about some mess in the truck. I wasn’t really listening. It was ready to do calls. I restocked it after that last run an hour ago. I’ll be damned if