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Twice during the night he had to pull over and throw up. The second time he stripped out of his uniform and into the oldest clothes he had in the truck, pulled out all of his identification papers, fake ones and real, and set the whole lot on fire on the side of the road.
The mere sight of more flames made him weak in the knees, and he was sobbing uncontrollably from the pain in his body.
Once that was done, he removed the license tag from his truck, flung it into a nearby field and put the stolen one back on. Satisfied he’d done all he could to protect himself, he locked himself inside the truck and went to sleep. If he died, then so much the better. If he woke up, then he would keep driving. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had.
A couple of hours later a truck driver honked loud and long as he passed Hershel’s pickup parked on the side of the highway. Hershel woke abruptly, his heart pounding, and realized he’d just pissed in his pants.
“Oh, Lord, Lord, just let me die,” he moaned.
He began digging through the glove box and the console, looking for painkillers, and when he finally found some, he took a handful and chewed them up like candy. The taste was horrible, and he’d taken at least twice the recommended dosage, but he was past caution. Once he got them swallowed, he started the truck and pulled back out onto the highway.
When he crossed the city limits of Jackson, Mississippi, it was just before 5:00 a.m. The traffic was just beginning to build, with early morning workers heading to their jobs. He followed the signs to the nearest hospital and parked in the back of the lot.
“Oh, my God,” had become his mantra, and he kept saying it over and over to keep from screaming as he emptied his pockets, leaving what money he had on him in the console and the keys in the ignition. Having it stolen was the fastest way to remove the last trace of where he’d gone.
When he got out and started walking toward the Emergency Room entrance, he began to stumble and stagger. He made it just inside the doors before stumbling again, and this time he went down, unconscious.
He woke up screaming some time later, as the doctors and nurses were cleaning the burns on his face and arm.
“Stop…oh, my God, stop!” he cried, begging and grabbing at their hands. Then he heard a voice.
“My name is Doctor Hudson. You’re in a hospital. Can you tell me your name? Do you know what happened to you?”
Hershel could only see clearly from one eye, and he turned his head toward the man’s voice.
“My name is Phil. I think something started a fire. Maybe a crack pipe. I can’t remember.”
“Do you do drugs, Phil?”
The side of his face suddenly felt as if it was on fire. He screamed again.
“I’m sorry, Phil. We have to remove the dead skin off your face before it can begin to heal properly.”
“Can’t you give me something for the pain?” he begged.
“Do you take drugs, Phil?”
“No, no, never.”
“But you said a crack pipe.”
Even in the midst of the pain, he was already playing into his new persona.
“Not mine,” he said, and then moaned. “The guy in the alley beside me.”
“Where do you live?” the doctor asked as they continued to work.
“Nowhere. I have no home.”
“You’re homeless?”
“Homeless,” Hershel muttered.
“Phil! What’s your last name,” the doctor asked.
Hershel closed his eyes and didn’t answer.
“Doctor, I think he passed out,” a nurse said.