Page 1 of Back in the Saddle

ONE

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN

It was dark as pitch in the area around the makeshift encampment that sat in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse, in what had become a kind of no-man’s-land just south of the heart of the city.

This darkness might have had to do with the fact it was nearing one in the morning.

It wasn’t a great time to do my search, but in the last six months, I’d been hitting up the encampment at random times, day and evening, and always came up empty-handed. But due to safety issues, I’d never gone so late (or early, depending on how you looked at it).

This time, I was giving it a shot precisely because it was so late (also because I was getting desperate).

He had to sleep somewhere, and I was hoping it was here. At the same time, I died a little death thinking it might be.

It was the night before Thanksgiving.

I’d hoped he’d be somewhere with someone on Thanksgiving, even if that someone wasn’t me, and, well, that somewhere was here.

I’d learned, and I had the requisite materials with me.

Four bags full of bottles of water (sorry environment) and a backpack stuffed with packs of beef jerky, boxes of protein bars and hydration packets.

Oh yeah, and an empty used sharps container.

Homer shuffled out first, as Homer always did. I wasn’t sure Homer slept. I was sure Homer was King of the Homeless Encampment.

I was sure of this because I’d learned something else. I had to make Homer trust me before anyone else did.

This took time.

And lots of bottles of water and packs of beef jerky.

He said nothing as he took two of the bags and the sharps container from me.

Then he mumbled, “Late night.”

“Is he here?”

My vision had adjusted to the dark. I’d hit the encampment, and in the dim light that came from the city and various camp lanterns dotting the space, I saw his eyes in his dangerously tanned, leathery, be-whiskered face catch mine.

And I saw my answer.

No.

My brother wasn’t there.

“Seen him?” I asked as we began to move through the oddly organized labyrinth of tents, the tarps that created crude shelters, loaded grocery carts and scattering of debris.

“Did you bring clean syringes?”

This wasn’t an answer to my question, and sadly my answer to his was, “Not this time.”

He nodded, reached into a bag, made a noise, and a hand came out of a tent.

He put a bottle of water in it as I shrugged off the backpack to pull out a bag of jerky.

Homer took that, tossed it into the tent, and we moved on.

We did this at two more tents before I said, “Homer.”

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