Keep the Ghost

21. Hospital bills

Waking up is a gradual process that begins with my body drifting up from the bottom of a deep blue pool. The pool is perfectly round, and seems bottomless. Cool serenity.

At its base, I have only the faintest awareness of being. Can't remember who I am, or what's brought me here—I only possess a sense of existing. I wonder if this is what it was like moments before I was born.

I rise, slowly, memories flitting past. As I climb, light grows, and thought sharpens. The closer I get to the top, the lonelier I become. The emptier.

Of all that's happened in the past week, the realization I've lost Sean Reilly is the worst. I am a new kind of alone, without even myself to rely on for company.

My nose and mouth push to the surface, skin of water opening to allow my lips past, its slick grip sliding across my face.

I inhale reality.

My eyes open. My leg is wrapped in a complex cast, black plastic with multiple joints and straps. It all feels infinitely better than when I arrived—secure and intact, joint held together by the bindings.

There sits a dense layer of warm foam between myself and my senses, a vibrating golden hum of prescription-grade painkillers. I assume I'm on morphine. Not complaining—this is my first pain-free moment in days.

I lift my hand; I'm plugged in, and needles protrude from my veins. One of these is the syrup drip of comfort. I tug on the tubes, but can't bring myself to remove them. Too heavy; too warm.

A silhouette fills the window in the door, which opens and closes without a sound. I force my eyes open, swallow twice, three times. For some reason, this is difficult.

"What do you need to get out of here?" Morgan asks, voice hushed. Her hair is tucked into a red baseball cap, and a loosely knit sweater drapes across shoulders, faintest outline of her black bra visible through the threads.

"A wheelchair," I mumble.

"A what?"

I swallow, then try again. God, this morphine. "A wheelchair."

Morgan nods, pulls her cap low, and disappears out the door. Moments later she returns, walking backward with a wheelchair in tow.

My rescuer pulls the purse from her shoulder, reaches inside, and withdraws a handful of clothes. A pair of shorts are tossed onto my chest.

I watch them for a moment, slow in my drugged stupor. She sighs, then reaches for the blanket that covers me, ripping it back, exposing me to the air.

Too high to blush. Morgan steps to the end of the bed, holds the shorts open, and slides my feet through. The cast snags several times, and she pulls the fabric free until at last I'm covered.

"Come on. The nurses are changing shifts, we've got to hurry or someone will stop us," she says.

I point at my hand. She grabs the needles and yanks them out; I barely feel it. Little droplets of blood appear in a row on my hand, wet rubies.

Morgan leans forward again, nearness exciting me, and slides a shirt over my head.

"Come on," she says, bringing the wheelchair closer. "Grab the sides. That's right. Give me your leg, I'll set it here. Okay, how is that?"

I can't tell if that hurt or not; everything still feels so wonderful. My cast is elevated on an extended leg rest, then we're moving. She pushes me into an empty hall; a patient snores loudly. Screensavers bounce around otherwise dormant computer monitors.

We're in the elevator, going down. It opens to the first floor. Morgan moves in a hurry, walking fast as she wheels me toward the exit, and we're through, into the tepid Louisiana night.

A red Cadillac sits in the otherwise barren parking lot, waiting for us. Wheels roll smooth over the pavement. We reach the car, and as Morgan opens the door, I see a man jogging out the front of the hospital.

"Goddamnit," Morgan curses.

I struggle to lift myself from the wheelchair, slipping and losing balance. I lurch forward and grasp the seat of the car, clinging to the seatbelt like a mountain climber grabs sturdy roots, pulling myself into the back seat. I turn to check: the man running through the parking lot is wearing the blue uniform of a security guard.

"Jack is supposed to be here. That son of a bitch." She wraps both arms around my legs, lifting and pushing as I pull myself back into the car with my arms.

"Just drive," I mumble.

She shuts the door; I'm inside, sprawled over the back seat. Morgan jogs around to the front, opens it, and in a second the engine revs to life. The machine snarls as we race out of the parking lot—the security guard's run breaks to a jog, and his shoulders slump as he settles for grabbing our stolen wheelchair just as it begins to roll across the pavement.

"Sean, I need you to check the pocket where you put your new ID."

I do so, reaching into the pocket behind Morgan's seat, where I put Ryan White's documents. The fabric of the seat itches the little needle pricks in my hand.

"There's nothing in here," I say. The warmth is beginning to fade, and I wonder if I should be as worried as Morgan is.

"Shit. Goddamnit, Jack, you idiot."

"Why would Jack want my ID?"

"Because Jack doesn't have an identity, and that's made him very desperate. It's why he's hiding. Except now, he has yours."