Page 4 of Hounded (Fire & Brimstone)

4

Indy

“Good luck,” Blake told me, but I knew he didn’t mean it.

After spending the first five weeks of my rehab stint alone, I was thrilled to have someone occupying the second bed in my drab, beige room. I’d talked to myself enough that I was afraid the staff would decide to commit me to a mental institution. So, the idea of company was a relief… until I got to know him.

Blake had been to Hopeful Horizons twice before. He said he’d be here again. In and out like a revolving door because rehab was treatment, not a cure.

At least he was decent at making conversation. As someone with no memories, I was, objectively, boring, but Blake came up with all kinds of things to talk about.

“Where are you from?”

“What’s your drug of choice?”

“Are your eyes naturally that color?”

While I packed my bag the morning I was being discharged, Blake sprawled on my bed, smacking loudly on a piece of gum .

“Maybe you figured it out,” he said with a snort. “Maybe I oughta fry my brain, too. Then I won’t remember how fucking good it feels to get high.”

His cackling laugh was a sound I would not miss.

Two months of therapy had been largely unproductive. At first, the counselors didn’t believe me when I said I’d forgotten everything. They asked my name, my age, and how I got here, but I had no answers.

In group sessions, the other patients talked and cried. I cried, too, in my room at night, overwhelmed by feelings with no thoughts behind them.

I knew that I was lonely. My bed was cold, and my bare room was dark. Some nights I woke up grasping, reaching for something that didn’t have a name. Someone? But my hope of finding out who dwindled as weeks went by with no calls, no letters, and no visitors.

I had no one, which made release day far less celebratory than my therapist tried to convince me it would be. It didn’t seem to matter whether I was in or out of this place, and I wondered what I would find when I returned to whatever home I’d left behind.

My downer of a morning took a slight turn for the better when I shuffled out into the waiting area, and the receptionist, Gina, waved.

We’d talked a few times in the cafeteria while she ate brown bag lunches she brought from home. She told me about her dog, a flat-faced pug named Chips. She had an album of snapshots on her phone dedicated to him. I listened. I should have been great at listening because I didn’t have much to say, but words tumbled out anyway. Sometimes, they ran away with me and, when I caught up to them, my head was too muddled to make sense of any of it.

Wandering over to the reception window, I peered through it at Gina’s desk. A magazine flopped open atop her keyboard with a crossword puzzle in progress. She worked those on her lunch breaks, too. The questions tended to be about pop culture or modern history, so I was never much help.

Gina tucked her pen behind her ear, then smiled at me. “Have you talked to your friend yet today?”

“What friend?” I asked.

Rolling her chair backward, Gina reached into a low filing cabinet and dug out a large Ziploc bag. She raised it to show my name written on it in marker. Gina scooted forward and stuffed the bag through the gap at the bottom of the window.

“The tall fellow who brought you,” she explained. “He’s coming to pick you up.”

I dipped into the shallow puddle of memories that had formed in the past sixty days. “Tall fellow” was a vague description, so I asked, “What’s his name?”

She gestured to the bag. “It’s on the card in there.”

Peeling the Ziploc open, I dumped out its contents. A cellphone, charging cable, and wallet tumbled onto the strip of counter between Gina and me.

The wallet was leather. Designer. I brushed my thumb across the logo stamped on the front of it, then flipped it open to check the ID inside. The New York driver’s license bore my photo, but it had been defaced. Devil horns and a curly mustache were added in bold, black scribbles, and most of the words were marked out. My name had been struck through, and the initials “N.D.” were added to scarce whitespace.

A debit card, a ragged twenty-dollar bill, and a cologne sample filled a few of the slots but, otherwise, the wallet was empty. I checked the phone next and found the battery dead.

A square of stiff paper lay amidst the rest, and I pulled it out to read the inscription.

I’ll be here when you’re ready to go. I’m your friend. I’ll get you home safe.

Loren

I stared at the words and signature penned in flowing script. Loren, whoever he was, had beautiful handwriting. But what should have been reassuring only raised more questions. I looked up to find Gina smiling sunnily.

“This is the guy who brought me?” I flashed the card.

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I snorted bitterly. “Was it too much to ask for a photo?”

Life as I remembered it began in a blur of panic and confusion. I woke in a patient room with a duffel bag full of clothes and the vague memory of being in this same waiting area watching a long-legged, long-haired man pace the floor before me. His eyes were kind and soulfully deep, and he seemed so very sad.

Loren.

I frowned at his signature again. He dropped me off but hadn’t visited or checked on me since. And today, he was coming to pick me up. Who was this guy, anyway?

Shifting, I tugged on the strap of the duffel slung across my chest. My 60-day sobriety pin glinted in the fluorescent light.

“Do I wait here?” I gestured to the rows of empty chairs.

Gina nodded. “Or outside if you want. It’s a lovely day.”

Turning, I looked out the double glass doors. Therapy made the world sound like a scary place full of temptation and pitfalls. I’d never been as eager to leave as the other patients. They had lives to return to and people they missed. I had blank spaces and now the distant wondering how this guy named Loren fit into them.

I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the card pinched between my fingers. I wasn’t sure how long I would be expected to wait for my designated driver and, if I’d learned anything about myself during eight weeks in this glorified prison, it was that I had no patience at all.

“Is there somewhere I can plug this in?” I waved the phone and power cable at Gina, who pointed to an outlet between chairs on the opposite wall.

I stuffed my things back into the Ziploc and headed that way, passing a lone woman watching the television broadcasting the channel directory with elevator music for ambiance. After plugging in the phone, I sat and let the duffel slide to the floor between my feet. While waiting for the cell to power on, I looked through my wallet again, then reread the note from mysterious Loren.

I’m your friend.

If that was true, maybe he could tell me about myself. I didn’t even know basic things like my favorite color, or food, or if I had any allergies. I could have killed myself with a PB&J.

When the phone reached 3% battery, I turned it on. The wallpaper was a basic geometric design in primary colors, and the apps were standard, only what must have come with the phone from the factory.

There were no games, loyalty programs, or social media accounts. No text message threads, no call log, and no contacts except for one: Loren.

I opened the photo gallery and found it barren, and paranoia set in. I yanked the cord out of the charging port and walked back to Gina’s desk, where she was nose-deep in her crossword.

“Did you guys wipe this?” I waved the cell for clarity. “Is that part of the program or something?”

She shook her head, and her fountain of a ponytail swished. “More your part than ours. A lot of people have to cut ties after they leave here. Start fresh.”

Frowning, I looked at the cell and clicked into the single contact.

A name and a number. No address, no pertinent notes.

“I’m gonna call him,” I declared.

I made my way back to my seat and held the phone with my finger hovering over the Dial icon.

Maybe it was too soon. I didn’t want to look impatient and ignorant. With a grumble, I dropped the cell into the empty seat next to me. I leaned back until I was as comfortable as I could be, crossed my arms, closed my eyes, and waited.

The music droning from the television would normally have put me to sleep, but I was too bored to doze. Being dead would have been more interesting than sitting in that stiff chair, staring at the insides of my eyelids, and hearing the crickets chirp in my empty brain.

Finally—the clock on the wall informed me it had been about fifteen minutes—I scooped up the phone again. If I called, what would I say?

Hey, it’s Indy. Just making sure you didn’t forget about me. Like I forgot about you…

I stood and took the phone back to Gina’s window. Her smile had an air of sympathy that I didn’t like.

“Something wrong, hon?” she asked.

“Can you try calling him? I have his number.”

“Sure,” Gina said.

I raised my cell to the window, showing Loren’s contact info as she punched in the numbers.

Gina cradled the phone between her chin and shoulder, and it rang and rang. Finally, she cupped her hand to the receiver and asked, “Do you want me to leave a voicemail?”

“No, that’s okay.” I shook my head. “I’ll wait.”

For another fifteen minutes.

The woman who had been sitting across from the TV got called to the back. The channel guide scrolled. Music played. Gina filled in her crossword.

Fifteen more minutes passed.

I craned my neck to see out the double doors to the vacant lot outside. I watched the curb, imagining some car or truck rolling up and the sad man with the pretty eyes stepping out.

But he didn’t. No one came. Same as it had been for eight long weeks .

I opened my phone again, and Loren’s contact information populated the screen. Anger flared, and my thumb twitched toward the Delete icon. It hovered there for a second, maybe two, then I pocketed the cell and stood.

My steps were deliberate as I made my way back to Gina’s desk. She had pushed the crossword aside and was tearing into a granola bar. My stomach growled, and I realized it was past lunchtime.

Gina smiled, exceedingly sympathetic, as I cleared my throat and asked, “Can you make one more call for me?”

Ten minutes later, I rose from my seat on the curb as a checkered yellow cab pulled up. The car idled while I threw my duffel in the trunk. Gina stood on the sidewalk and, when I closed the trunk lid, I glanced back at her. Tears lined my eyes, full of feelings and the thought that being released from rehab felt like being turned out. Rejected. Abandoned.

I bolted away from the cab and crashed into Gina with a hug. She staggered back and murmured a soft “Oh, sweetie,” before wrapping tentative arms around me.

I would have hung on, but all I knew about Gina was that she had a pug named Chips, and she was better at crossword puzzles than me. She wasn’t my friend.

Despite what the notecard stuffed in my pocket claimed, I wasn’t sure Loren was, either.