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Additional info for Resurrectionists (Iowa Short Fiction Award)
The orderly spoke in Creole. "Oui," said Devoix. He bent and picked up a sack in each hand and set them on the floor beside the stretcher, and the boy slid them aside with his foot. Then he too began unloading the sacks. Rossin snapped several pictures with his camera. Devoix looked up, sweating, then returned to his chore. Compositionally, the shots were better if you got low and caught the head of the corpse and the front legs and wheels of the stretcher, which balanced the black skin of the boy and the vertical movement of the drawer.
So I ask myself, is this effort futile? " Rossin nodded, scuffing at a black spot on the floor. " "Good idea," said the doctor. "Hey, would you mind if I observed this surgery of yours? " Devoix grimaced; perhaps it was intended as a smile. " It was dark when he left the hospital, just as the valley darkened now, the lights of the city and the Route de Delmas blinking on. Rossin had walked to the house where he was staying, next door to one they had given the writer, who left at the beginning of the surgery when Rossin and several orderlies helped pin a raving patient to his bed until the sedatives went to work.
Cal bit like a snapping turtle on a piece of plastic tube that bent around from behind his bed, and the curtain buzzed on its track and encircled his bed. The next morning there was no sign of Charis. Len was slightly nauseated when the orderly brought his breakfast, and he ate only half an apple that was browning on his plastic tray. His mother dropped by for half an hour, then departed, saying she would be back that evening, after his father got home from work. At twelve-thirty Charis arrived, carrying a canvas bag and a thermos.
Resurrectionists (Iowa Short Fiction Award) by Russell Working