Page 2 of Hounded

But I had to. It was all I could do.

Inside, I approached the front desk while Indy gawked at what, to him, was a brand-new world. The waiting room was bland, with white walls and linoleum tile floors androws of padded chairs. Magazines piled on intermittent end tables, and the TV on the wall broadcast the news in closed captioning.

“Lorenzo Moretti.” I introduced myself to the receptionist. “I called.”

The woman smiled sympathetically while I stammered through a retelling of what I’d described over the phone. Words like “amphetamines” and “overdose” were choked by burgeoning tears. I hugged the bag of Indy’s things against my side, determined to get through at least a few sentences while the woman nodded along.

“Is he admitting himself?” She looked at Indy standing complacently at my side.

He would have to. I had no proof of my claims. He looked fine. Fresh and new, with no sign of the addiction that had followed him for over a century. A cursory internet search had informed me I needed a court order to force him to come here, which was no easy feat for two men with fake IDs and little more than names to prove they existed.

I bobbed my head to the receptionist’s question, and she passed a clipboard under the Plexiglas divider.

She tapped a pen to the topmost page. “He’ll need to sign these.”

My mouth was dry as I took the clipboard and offered it to Indy, whose brow furrowed.

“Sign your name,” I mumbled.

He took the pen, waggling it and watching the chain attached to one end coil like a snake. I didn’t rush him, couldn’t bring myself to say a word until his amber eyes fixed on me and he said, “I don’t know my name.”

A lump clogged my throat. “Indy,” I forced out. “Just Indy. But you sign it like the letters N. D.”

He’d signed countless paintings and sketches, claiming ownership of beautiful things. He’d signed the sticky notes he left for me on the fridge or the bathroom mirror, reminders as if I were the forgetful one.

Now, he signed the intake papers with those same fluid strokes. They looked stark and black on the white paper.

Taking the clipboard, I slid it across the counter without looking at the receptionist, or Indy, or anything.

“Have a seat,” the woman’s voice chased me as I turned away.

I eased Indy into a chair facing the TV and set his bag beside his feet. Crouching in front of him, I swept the brown curls off his forehead and smoothed the front of his shirt. The lavender button-down was usually reserved for date nights because he thought I liked it when he dressed up. In truth, I liked him every way, but he was at his best in baggy sweatshirts and ripped jeans, fussing over the easel and canvas in our trailer until every inch of him was splotched in paint. He looked like art to me, vibrantly alive. Maybe that was why it hurt so much every time he died.

While I brushed my thumb across his cheek, he stared at me blankly. Awareness would come soon, and I selfishly hoped to be gone by then. I didn’t want this to be the first thing he remembered; I didn’t want him to know I’d abandoned him.

I paused on my way to standing and kissed the top of his head, then turned away and circled the room. It shouldhave been spacious and empty with only the two of us in it, but it felt like a shrinking cage. My hound panted, and so did I, forced to walk when I wanted to run away from this. It wasn’t too late to change my mind.

My hound perked at the thought, and I shook my head.

Over the last few lifetimes, Indy’s addiction had gotten progressively worse. I’d come home too many times to find him strung out. Once he’d fallen unconscious in the shower and laid on the floor soaked in cold water until I dragged him out. He’d even overdosed before. I’d found him seizing, his body twitching while foam bubbled from his lips.

I should have brought him here then. But when I suggested as much, he fought me, cursed at me, and swung his fists until I caught him up and held him. Then he told me he was afraid and made me promise not to leave him.

Yet here I was, doing exactly that.

The door leading to the back part of the facility opened with a beep. A white-coated doctor and a nurse in blue scrubs walked out. I rushed to Indy’s side and stood next to him with my hand on his shoulder as the newcomers approached.

“Mister…” The doctor glanced at the paper he held.

“Indy,” I explained, flustered enough that my cheeks warmed. “It’s Indy.”

The doctor didn’t ask for anything more while the nurse bent and lifted the packed duffel bag from the floor. It took all my self-control not to snatch it away from her. I didn’t want her to take it. Didn’t want them to take him.

A jostle against my hand announced Indy rising to his feet. His head swiveled from the medical staff to me and back again. For the first time in this life, something more than blind faith overtook his features. He frowned.

“What are you doing?” His question could have been for any of us.

Cognition flashed in his eyes, making them sharp and hard.

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