The Friction

The green soap does not lather well in cold water.

It is 3:15 in the morning. I am standing at the scrub sink outside Operating Room 2.  My arms are bare and red from the rough brush. Cold, clear water runs over my wrists, smelling like the rust inside the hospital pipes.

The little girl from Bed 3 is stable. Her stomach is stitched. The bleed has been stopped by a metal clip smaller than a staple. She is sleeping under a thin white thermal blanket while the machine keeps her lungs moving with a steady rhythmic click.

My body feels completely empty. That exhaustion that hits after the adrenaline runs out, leaving nothing but sweat on your skin. I walk down the short hallway to the doctors' locker room. My rubber shoes make a sticking sound on the wet floor where the janitor just mopped. 

The phone is inside my locker. It is sitting on top of my leather flats.

The screen is glowing.

There are eleven missed calls. All from Scarlet. And one voicemail.

I press the phone to my ear. I sit on the wooden bench. The wood is cold against my scrub pants.

The recording starts with a scream.

It doesn't even sound human. It's the screech of metal tearing through metal, so loud it hurts my ear. Then Scarlet’s voice comes in. She is panting and crying so hard her words blend together. 

"Snow. Snow, help me. Please. Please, Snow." 

I hear a heavy thud, like her phone hitting the steering wheel or dashboard. 

"There was a girl," Scarlet gasps. Her voice is shaking like a dry leaf in the wind. "She just appeared. Out of the rain. Near the corner of Kalayaan. I didn't see her, Snow. The windshield was too dark. The water wouldn't stop."

The line is quiet for two seconds except for the sound of the rain hitting her car roof.

"She hit the hood," Scarlet whispers. Her whisper is scarier than a scream, making it feel like she's standing right next to me in the dark locker room. "I heard her head smash into the windshield. Just a dark, round shape. Then she went under. I felt the tires jump, Snow. My God, I felt the car run over her." 

I press my hand to my mouth. My fingers still smell like the bitter, yellow antiseptic from surgery. 

"I ran," she says with a sharp sob.  "I didn't stop. I couldn't breathe. The security guard at the gate looked at my bumper when I came in. There’s a scratch. There’s... there’s something black stuck in the grill. Oh my God. Snow, come home. Please come home."

The recording ends with the sound of a door slamming.

The silence of the locker room comes back. Across the hall, the blue light of a vending machine blinks steadily. 

I stand up, my knees shaking badly. As I try to walk to the door, I stumble and hit my shoulder against a locker. The loud metallic bang echoes in the silence. 

I call her back.

The phone rings once before she picks it up. She is in her bathroom. I can hear the sink water running loudly to drown out any noise. 

"Scarlet," I say. My voice is gone. I have to say it again to make the sound come out. "Scarlet, where are you exactly?"

"My room," she gasps. "I locked the door. Ma kept knocking earlier but I told her I was throwing up from the tequila. She went back to bed."

"We have to call the police, Scarlet," I say, leaning against the cold steel lockers.  "We have to call an ambulance for that corner. Right now. Maybe she’s... maybe she’s still alive. "

"No," Scarlet says, her voice suddenly turning hard and cold. It’s the voice of her wealthy, powerful family. "No police, Snow. Are you crazy? Papa’s stock launch is on Thursday. If the papers get hold of this the whole company goes down."

"A person, Scarlet," I shout, crying now. "You hit a person. She was crossing the street."

"Tito Robert is already here," she says.

The sink water shuts off. The sudden silence over the phone is terrifying. e.

"What?" I ask.

"Tito Robert," she repeats flatly, sending a chill down my spine. "Papa’s head of security. He came in through the service gate five minutes ago. He has two men with him. They’re in the garage with the Mercedes right now."

"What are they doing, Scarlet?"

"They’re changing the bumper," she whispers. "They brought a spare one from our warehouse in Pasig. Same color, same year. They're taking the broken one away in a van. They're using chemicals to scrub the grill."

"You can't do that," I say. I am walking now. Out of the locker room. Down the hall toward the exit signs. My white coat is still on the hook but I don't go back for it. I don't care about the linen. "That’s a crime scene, Scarlet. That’s tampering."

"Robert is tracking the cameras," she says. She sounds like she is reading a report from a board meeting. "There’s a traffic camera on that corner but the lens was dirty from the storm. He’s already calling the barangay captain for that zone. They’re buying the hard drives from the commercial buildings along that strip. The guards won't talk—they know who pays them."

"You are erasing her," I say.

"I am saving myself," she says.

She hangs up.

I take the elevator down, seeing my messy reflection in the mirror—dark eye circles and a dress sticking out under my hospital scrubs. I get into my car and drive through the wet streets of Makati. 

The rain has stopped but the asphalt is still wet. It shines like oil under the yellow streetlights. When I pass the corner near Kalayaan my foot hovers over the brake. I look out the passenger window.

There is nothing there.

No police tape. No flashing lights. Just a big puddle of dirty water catching the reflection of a billboard for a new luxury condo. A street sweeper in a blue raincoat is using a bamboo broom to push leaves into the gutter. 

The water moves into the drain. Clear. Dark. Gone.

By the time I reach our mansion in Forbes Park, the morning sky looks like a pale purple bruise. 

The silver Mercedes is sitting in the garage.

The silver Mercedes sits in the garage, looking brand new without a single scratch. Near the generator room, two men in dark shirts are quietly hiding a tarp in the back of a van. They don't look at me; they just work quickly to make things disappear. 

Tito Robert is smoking a cigarette by the kitchen door.

He nods at me as I walk past.

"Good morning, Ms. Snow," he says. His voice is smooth. Like the leather in my father's office. "Your sister is asleep. Your mother says you should rest too. It’s going to be a long day."

I do not answer him.

Inside, the kitchen smells like fresh coffee and lemon cleaner. Our maid, Manang Teresa, is cooking garlic rice with her head down, avoiding my eyes. The entire house is quiet, clean, and perfectly normal. 

I walk up the stairs. My heels make no sound on the thick green carpet.

When I pass Scarlet’s door I stop. I press my palm against the wood. It is warm from the air conditioning unit working inside her room.

I listen.

There is no crying. No sound of water running in the sink. Only the low steady hum of her air purifier. Moving the air around the room. Filtering the dust. Filtering the smell of the perfume.

Making sure no trace of the night remains.