Page 11 of Hounded

“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. Myname 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 slungacross 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 myselfwith 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.

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