Cruise feels anxious being in his truck again. Ricki drives, the hospital content with the conquered dehydration set Cruise loose for home. The whine of the engine and the blink of a turn signal snaps his mind back two nights, and he shakes his head in an attempt to pulls his consciousness back to the present.
He can hear Ricki’s tense breathes, she slips the steering wheel between her fingers focusing on the road like a fisherman’s worm focuses on the world beyond the hook.
“How’d you get my truck?” He asks finally, fiddling with the I.D. Band around his wrist.
She glances into the rearview mirror between them, “Drew took me out to get it.” She quickly changes the subject from him, “I had to get gas so I borrowed your card.”
“Good. That’s good,” out his window he spots Mrs. Weaver raking her front yard, “thanks.”
They pull up to his apartment. The gray-blue paint peeled in patches to expose dark, grainy wood beneath it, the stairs to his second level unit are dark from an overnight rain. Ricki pulls into a spot, her red volvo waiting a few spaces down.
“You gonna be okay? Do you need help inside?”
“I’ll be alright.”
She pulls the keys from the ignition and moves her purse to her lap, “Get some rest, okay? You were pretty tired when they picked you up. I think you were still dreaming most of—“
“I wasn’t dreaming.”
His downstairs neighbor’s cat reclines on the ground beside the dumpster, licking its paws tiredly.
“Do you work today?”
She pulls her keys from her purse, “Yeah, I’m in in an hour.”
Cruise ducks out of the vehicle first, and Ricki follows, locking the doors and meeting him by the hood.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
He holds his palm open for his keys, “I’ll be fine.”
“Do you want me to come over tonight?”
“If you want.”
He presses his hospital armband into his jacket pocket with the keys, feeling for the door key with his fingers. She pulls her purse over her shoulder.
“I’ll call when I get off. See how you feel.”
She hugs him loosely and gives a light peck to his cheek. His hands drift absently to her elbows and tiredly drop back to his sides as she goes to her car door, “oh. Sherif Wayne came by the hospital a few times. He wanted to talk to you. When you were feeling up to it.”
Quickly hitting the dip between the lot and the road, she pulls from the parking lot and down the street. Pulling the door key from the rest on the chain, he slowly clops up the stairs to the second level of his apartment. He unbolts the locks and stands for a beat in his doorway. The couch, television, and old stack of mail by the door. Elements of his life in front of him. He pulls at the hospital band around his wrist again, steps inside and locks the door behind him.
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