Breathe.
But I couldn’t.
My nightmare lingered at the center of my head, clawing at my skull. I sat in bed and held my knees to my chest, trying to use my breathing as a shield, but it was pointless. I needed to call in the cavalry.
Dazed, I stumbled to my bathroom and turned on the light, grimacing as it stung my eyes like a dozen bees. I rummaged through the laundry bag until I found the small metal box at the bottom. I never used to hide it until Hayden started staying over, and the habit stuck even after he exited my life like a passing storm.
I slumped on the floor and opened the box with trembling fingers, then took out a sealed needle and carefully unwrapped it. I bit down on my lower lip and stuck the needle into my arm. The sharp pain was quickly replaced by a sense of relief, flowing through me like a wave. I let out a long moan, my head resting against the wall.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
With my skull feeling less shattered, I slowly opened my eyes. A thin river of blood slid down my pale skin. I carefully pulled the needle out, then stuck it again closer to my shoulder.
That hit the spot.
I stayed on the floor, trying not to feel sorry for myself. I had tried to take painkillers before, but they took too long to work.
Finally stable enough to stand, I pulled the needle out and threw it in the trash. After washing the blood, I stumbled back into bed.
*
The approaching car broke through the silence of my house. I had been sitting on my couch for the last two hours, staring at the wall. I opened the door as the BMW parked next to my old Volvo. There wasn’t enough light to see the driver, so I held my breath until a muscular black man climbed out, his bald head gleaming in the moonlight. I recognized Samuel from the previous two years, feeling relieved since I had had to deal with far worse than him.
“Good evening.” He climbed up the creaking wooden stairs, dragging a thick suitcase and holding a leather bag. His six-foot frame towered over my five-eight.
I moved out of his way and shut the door behind him.
“You have something to drink?” he asked and dumped his gear on the floor. “I forgot you live in a shithole.” He flashed a white-toothed smile. “No offense.”
“What do you want to drink?”
“Beer.”
I went to bring him a can of Budweiser. He cranked it open and took a mouthful. “You’ve cut your hair.”
I shrugged. “I wanted a change.”
“Cool. Help me with the cameras.”
I tried to stay away from any sort of recording equipment, but it felt appropriate to do so now. I took the cameras he handedme and spread them around the living room. In 2006, video cameras were more compact than they had been in the early ‘90s.
Once we got everything sorted and connected, Samuel sat on the couch with his laptop on his lap. I stood with my arms crossed, trying to keep my foot from tapping on the floor.
“You still do art,” Samuel said, eyeing the sculptures on my shelves.
“It’s my job.”
“Does it pay well?”
“Rarely, but I don’t spend much.” I was also lucky to have a few regular clients who I’d never personally met but appreciated my art enough to buy it.
“Let me check your leg.”
I approached Samuel and placed my right foot on the couch next to him, pulling up my pant leg. He leaned to pick up a scanner from his bag, then connected it with a cable to the laptop. After clicking on his keyboard, he pressed the cold scanner to the side of my calf.
I used to have an older tracker inserted underneath my skin, but they had reached out to me four years ago with instructions to go to a motel in Santa Monica. There, a masked man told me it was time to upgrade my tracker. He gave me full anesthesia, and when I woke up hours later, I was alone with my leg bandaged, blood on the sheet.
“Seems fine,” Samuel said, putting the scanner back in his bag. “I’m good to start. If you need to use the toilet, now’s the time.”
