Traffic (Complete two-hundred pages) (Moving to Kindle Vella in 30 Days! )

2

HOSPITAL

THEY ARRIVED AT THE HOSPITAL. And he lay in his bed. The nurse left him and he was alone. But not for long. In a day, the nurse returned with a message. A man was there to see him.

Pat.

"Hey buddy," Pat said. Holding a stack of books. "Thought you might want some entertainment written in English. . ." Pat's head lifted when he spotted the television hanging up on the ceiling. Channel 2 Televisa. ". . . because you can't speak Spanish all too well."

The patient nodded. His guest had a point. He had no clue what was going on the television. He had meant to grab for the remote a minute ago but it slipped off his knee and the batteries spilled out on the floor. His fractured leg made it impossible to move, lest he bleed again.

"The boss wants us to go now," the visitor said, playing with a lopsided pink balloon that was too inflated on one edge to be a heart. "Who gave you this?"

The patient was hardly listening. He was too busy trying to learn Spanish. But perhaps he'd answer the visitor's question. "The nurse gave it to me."

The visitor took off his fedora in a sardonic display of respect. "The knockout at the front desk?" He popped out a smolder to the patient, walked over and slapped him on the shoulder. It was truly painful. "You sly dog. Have you made your move?"

The patient turned a brow to him. "I was just in a car crash."

"Right. That reminds me. How's your wife?" This question triggered a heat wave across the patient's body. A fire in him burned and he felt the chains of fate tighten around his stomach. He lay motionless. Merely let his head sink deeper into his hard pillow.

"I don't know. I haven't seen her."

"You don't know how your wife is?" the visitor pressed, placing his fedora back on.

This time the patient did not wish to answer. He merely nodded. And said, "I do know." That is all the patient said.

The visitor waited and his face turned white. His spirit dropped a bit. He meant to change the subject. "How's Elise?" The patient's daughter. Immediately he regretted his question.

After a pause the patient said, "Home."

"In Monsey?" Monsey is in New York. A large Orthodox Jewish population there. Good for family life. If you're religious at least. Or conservative. Or wouldn't mind the social isolation anyway. Regardless if your neighbors were human or reptile.

"No. We live in LA," said the patient

"Traffic's bad there, too."

"Not as bad as Mexico City."

"No, nothing like Mexico city."

"The nurse said you should be good to go by tonight. I'll drive."

The word 'drive' sent shivers up the patient's spine.

When night came, the nurse helped him into Pat's rental car, and brushed his hair off his face again because he would not do it himself. Pat watched nurse walk away before he drove the patient home. The traffic was brutal. An absolute traffic jam. "Mexico City has the worst traffic congestion in the world," Pat said. It was true. But the crash survivor already knew this. "So our job here is over. We can stay in Mexico City one night or we can fly to Bangkok immediately. Depends on when you want to order the flight tickets." He raised an eyebrow at a local bar passing them slowly on the sidewalk.

The patient shrugged. He didn't want to be anywhere but six feet under a rose garden. But then he thought of his wife. Then the car crash. Then his little girl, Elise. His leg suddenly came to life. Gravity pulled at it and it crackled like a bed of ice in summer.

"Let's go home."

Pat guffawed. "You don't want to enjoy Mexico City?"

The patient said nothing. For Pat, this was enough of a response. Pat rolled his eyes. In two hours they reached the airport. They got on a plane.

LAX bound.