. .”
He wasted no time. He rolled to the panic room behind the kitchen. He keyed the combination into the number pad beside the door, which clicked open to allow him admittance. He rolled inside, grabbed a cardboard box and set it on his tray. Rolling around the house, he removed various scattered paintings and framed photographs from his walls, and a collection of books from his shelf. He had hung the paintings himself, so they were within easy reach. Not everything fit in the box, so he stacked some of the paintings on top of its contents. Back in the panic room, he leaned the excess paintings and photographs facing the wall. He set the box heavily on the floor. As he reversed from the room, he locked and closed the door firmly behind him.
“That should do it,” he said.
His phone alarm beeped.
* * *
Tommy blinked blearily, trying to focus on anything within his dim surroundings. A sharp, pulsing pain threatened to explode out of his forehead. His mouth tasted like dust, and his lips were excruciatingly chapped. He was conscious of his battered body: he felt like one big, aching bruise.
He found that he could move his arms and legs with a little effort, but sharp pains and stiffness convinced him to wait a while before trying to move a second time. He discovered that his left arm was attached to an IV drip whose bag hung, suspended, from a portable metal pole. But he could tell, even in the darkness, that he was not in a hospital room.
It didn’t matter. He was in a comfortable bed, with a roof over his head. And most importantly – he was dry, the bed was fixed in one spot, and it didn’t heave and sway relentlessly.
There was a whirring sound like a small toy car that had been wound up and let go. A robot-like machine rolled up to the bedside, red lights blinking from what Tommy took to be its “face”. A female computerized voice emanated from speaker holes located on its “chin”.
“Please relax, lay back, and rest. You are being treated for dehydration and exposure. Intervenes fluids are being administered. Please do not move unnecessarily or remove the needle from your arm.”
Feeling slightly weirded out but comforted, all the same, Tommy did as the robot instructed and lay back against the pillows.
Just then, the door of the room swung open, letting in a shaft of sunlight. Tommy blinked and squinted against the sudden glare as a man seated in a wheelchair rolled into the room accompanied by a sour, nasty smell. He couldn’t see the man’s face; it was silhouetted against the brightly lit doorway.
A bedside lamp clicked on.
When his eyes had adjusted, Troy saw the man sitting silently, contemplating him out of small, round, brown eyes. Wild gray unkempt hair stuck out every which way from the top of the man’s head. It matched the gray, wiry hair that started at his chin and spread down his neck and across his cheeks.
He wore an oversized grayish-white t-shirt and an equally large pair of shorts. His arms and shoulders were sinewy and well-muscled. From his shorts, gaunt legs protruded awkwardly, as though they didn’t know what position they were supposed to take. The skin on his legs hung loosely from his bones. His feet were bare.
Attached to the arms of the man’s wheelchair was a shiny metal tray, upon which sat a glass of water, a medicine cup, and Tommy’s wallet.
The old man cleared his throat. “Thomas Quinn,” he said in a frail, scratchy voice. He picked up Tommy’s wallet from his tray and set it on the bedside table. “I didn’t take anything. I just wanted to know who I picked up off my beach. I dried it for you in the dryer. How are you feeling?”
Tommy open his parched mouth and croaked in a slow Southern U.S. drawl, “Awful. My head.” He winced. Even talking hurt.
“Sorry. I didn’t want Shelley to treat you for pain if you didn’t have any. But I brought you water and some ibuprofen, just in case. Can you swallow?”
“I don’t
He wasted no time. He rolled to the panic room behind the kitchen. He keyed the combination into the number pad beside the door, which clicked open to allow him admittance. He rolled inside, grabbed a cardboard box and set it on his tray. Rolling around the house, he removed various scattered paintings and framed photographs from his walls, and a collection of books from his shelf. He had hung the paintings himself, so they were within easy reach. Not everything fit in the box, so he stacked some of the paintings on top of its contents. Back in the panic room, he leaned the excess paintings and photographs facing the wall. He set the box heavily on the floor. As he reversed from the room, he locked and closed the door firmly behind him.
“That should do it,” he said.
His phone alarm beeped.
* * *
Tommy blinked blearily, trying to focus on anything within his dim surroundings. A sharp, pulsing pain threatened to explode out of his forehead. His mouth tasted like dust, and his lips were excruciatingly chapped. He was conscious of his battered body: he felt like one big, aching bruise.
He found that he could move his arms and legs with a little effort, but sharp pains and stiffness convinced him to wait a while before trying to move a second time. He discovered that his left arm was attached to an IV drip whose bag hung, suspended, from a portable metal pole. But he could tell, even in the darkness, that he was not in a hospital room.
It didn’t matter. He was in a comfortable bed, with a roof over his head. And most importantly – he was dry, the bed was fixed in one spot, and it didn’t heave and sway relentlessly.
There was a whirring sound like a small toy car that had been wound up and let go. A robot-like machine rolled up to the bedside, red lights blinking from what Tommy took to be its “face”. A female computerized voice emanated from speaker holes located on its “chin”.
“Please relax, lay back, and rest. You are being treated for dehydration and exposure. Intervenes fluids are being administered. Please do not move unnecessarily or remove the needle from your arm.”
Feeling slightly weirded out but comforted, all the same, Tommy did as the robot instructed and lay back against the pillows.
Just then, the door of the room swung open, letting in a shaft of sunlight. Tommy blinked and squinted against the sudden glare as a man seated in a wheelchair rolled into the room accompanied by a sour, nasty smell. He couldn’t see the man’s face; it was silhouetted against the brightly lit doorway.
A bedside lamp clicked on.
When his eyes had adjusted, Troy saw the man sitting silently, contemplating him out of small, round, brown eyes. Wild gray unkempt hair stuck out every which way from the top of the man’s head. It matched the gray, wiry hair that started at his chin and spread down his neck and across his cheeks.
He wore an oversized grayish-white t-shirt and an equally large pair of shorts. His arms and shoulders were sinewy and well-muscled. From his shorts, gaunt legs protruded awkwardly, as though they didn’t know what position they were supposed to take. The skin on his legs hung loosely from his bones. His feet were bare.
Attached to the arms of the man’s wheelchair was a shiny metal tray, upon which sat a glass of water, a medicine cup, and Tommy’s wallet.
The old man cleared his throat. “Thomas Quinn,” he said in a frail, scratchy voice. He picked up Tommy’s wallet from his tray and set it on the bedside table. “I didn’t take anything. I just wanted to know who I picked up off my beach. I dried it for you in the dryer. How are you feeling?”
Tommy open his parched mouth and croaked in a slow Southern U.S. drawl, “Awful. My head.” He winced. Even talking hurt.
“Sorry. I didn’t want Shelley to treat you for pain if you didn’t have any. But I brought you water and some ibuprofen, just in case. Can you swallow?”
“I don’t
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