It's been almost a week since that meeting with Harris and the proposal of my current predicament and now I'm on my way to my new home. The home I will be sharing with a stranger.
When I called Harris the same night he had first talked to me about all of this, he sounded surprised. Whether it was because I had gotten back to him so quickly or if he didn't think I would do it, I don't know, but I surprised myself too.
Now I'm less than five minutes away from becoming someone completely different for who knows how long. When I tried asking Harris for more details, he admitted he didn't know much either. Only one thing really: my patient's name.
Harry.
The name has been echoing through my mind for the past five days and each day a new face is attached to it. All of them though, if I'm going to be truthful, are distorted images of him, the boy I couldn't save. He will always haunt me, but maybe that's just the motivation I need to help this Harry kid and stop him from making the same mistakes.
"Here," the driver shouts, braking hard, barely dodging the curb.
"Thanks," I nod curtly and open the door, paying him though the passenger window from the street. The second he has the money in his hand, the window comes up and he drives off, the sound of his engine vibrating the air around me.
I stand straight and fidget in my shoes. It feels weird arriving at my new home with just myself and my purse, but they said they would get my boxes from my dorm for me.
They being the producers, the producers who finally signed this band I still don't know the name of, the day after I agreed to help. Harris' class had just ended when I got a call from their new manager, Simon, who gave me all the details. I would move into Harry's flat and all I needed to do was pack my stuff and send him my adress and then show up today at 8:30 and the rest would be taken care of.
After the call I talked to Harris because he was the only one I could talk to. Another condition Simon had was that no one, under any circumstance, was to know about what I was about to do. As far as anyone knows, I went into the city to start an intership at a counseling facility with real counselors to earn hours for my degree. Which I guess is partially true.
But Harris knew the truth.
He's actually been quite helpful in the dicussion about my questions and fears of what's to come. I don't know if it's because he cares for me as a student or if it's the guilt he has for putting me in this situation, but either way, I'm grateful.
I glance at my watch. 8:20. I sigh and decide to just go in. What will ten minutes hurt?
The flat is the highest of three. The building seems quite nice for a up and coming musician, but I figure the rich producers must be paying for it now.
Simon had a key sent to Harris who then gave it to me so when I arrive at the door, I knew I wouldn't have to knock, but I didn't expect the door to already be wide open and men and women passing freely through it.
As I step across the threshold I heard the sound of vaccums ringing through the apartment. Men in suits scattered around the kitchen, living room and down the halls, some with flashlights and one with a dog, searching for something. It doesn't take me long to figure out what's going on.
A full scale sterilization.
What good does an in home couselor do if the drug addict has a stash hidden in a drawer that he hits in between sessions?
Behind each person looking for drugs, there's someone cleaning up after the wreckage. Ten or so maids, as I assume, are tidying up drawers, moving back furniture or just simply dusting the tops of shelves and making the place look somewhat presentable.
