Maybe Goldie could get in touch with someone at the health department. He vaguely recalled they had a mental health hotline, and he could try to get Day to talk to someone.
Not that Day would talk unless it was in the guise of a prayer to God.
Shit.
Goldie wondered how much a private shrink would cost, and he decided that was probably the best way to move forward getting Day the treatment that he needed. He did sincerely want to help him, and he hoped that Day would be agreeable to talking to someone whenever Goldie could figure out how to arrange it.
He could get Day a big whiteboard to scribble on or something.
Goldie wanted to learn more about Day, including where he was staying. Though Day had insisted that he had somewhere to go home to, Goldie definitely had his doubts about that. While he wasn’t ready to offer Day a permanent residence, he was more than comfortable letting Day stay with him until they got everything sorted out. He was sincerely concerned that Day had been living on the streets, and he wasn’t going to let him sleep out in the cold.
Especially with it snowing like this.
Ugh.
Goldie may have walked just a tiny bit faster when he noticed the snow coming down harder, but Day had no problem keeping up, probably just as eager to get out of the cold.
Up ahead, there was a man standing by the front door of the apartment building.
The city was a big place, so Goldie wasn’t bothered that he didn’t recognize the man. That wasn’t so unusual. What was, however, was how intently he was staring at Goldie and Day.
Goldie was planning to ignore him and walk around him to get inside, but the man reached out suddenly and grabbed Goldie’s arm. “Hey, you must be stupid or high if you—”
“You that wrestler, Goldilocks?” the man demanded.
“Yeah?” Goldie frowned.
This guy didn’t look like a fan.
Day slowly set down the groceries he’d been carrying. His expression was blank, and his eyes were getting that weird, far-off look to them again.
Goldie’s adrenaline crept up his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something was very wrong, and he glanced at the man’s other hand.
It was jammed into his coat pocket, but there was definitely something in there and the man was pointing it at Goldie.
Another gun.
Great.
“I need to talk to you about Michael Parker,” the man said firmly.
Goldie couldn’t believe this was fucking happening. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, someone was threatening him with a gun. It was mid-morning, broad fucking daylight, and this asshole was pulling a gun on him and Day.
Wait, shit, where did Day go?
One second he was there putting the groceries down and then—
“Hey! Fucker!” the man snapped. “I’m talking to you. You best listen to what I gotta say before we take a little stroll around the corner, do you fuckin’ understand me?”
“Yes,” Goldie hissed between clenched teeth. “I understand.”
“Put your shit down. Let’s step over here, huh?”
Goldie slowly set down his groceries next to Day’s, and he glanced around quickly. He didn’t see Day anywhere, and he also didn’t see anyone approaching on this side of the sidewalk that he could try to signal for help. Traffic was light, and he had no idea how to possibly flag someone down.
Was there a special hand sign for “Help, this fucking asshole is pointing a gun at me”?
Probably not.
