Vinny checked the paperwork twice. O-negative, taken this morning, properly stored. He held the bag up to the fluorescent light, examining the colour. Rich. Healthy. The donor had excellent iron levels.
“You’re very thorough,” Sarah said, wheeling past with a trolley.
He shrugged. “Standards matter.”
Twenty-three years he’d worked at the blood centre. Twenty-three years of watching perfect donations get loaded into vans, driven to hospitals, transfused into accident victims and surgical patients. All of it necessary. All of it going where it should.
Well, mostly.
The night shift helped. Fewer staff, less scrutiny. Just him and the hum of refrigeration units, the steady temperature logs, the endless inventory checks. He’d learned to take only what wouldn’t be missed—bags flagged for disposal due to paperwork errors, units that failed quality control by the smallest margins. Enough to sustain, never enough to thrive.
With his dental problems, feeding had always been complicated. As a younger man, he’d tried other methods. Messy. Dangerous. The kinds of mistakes that got you noticed, hunted. This was better. Civilised. He’d found a way to get on without harming anyone… including himself.
“Fancy a cuppa?” Sarah called from the break room.
“No thanks.” He never ate or drank around others. Easier that way.
She laughed. “You’re so dedicated, Vinny. Been here longer than anyone. Don’t you ever want a normal job? Nine to five, proper weekends?”
He smiled, carefully. “This suits me.”
Through the window, the sun was rising. He shivered slightly and collected his coat.
“See you tonight,” he said.
Sarah waved. “You’re a creature of habit, you are.”
“Something like that,” Vinny said.
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