Page 19 of Help Me Remember

The laptop had sat there, however, taunting me constantly. It would be relatively simple to load it up, type in the name Eric insisted was mine. I already knew I was scared of what I’d learn if I did. Images of warrants for my arrest and a list of various awful crimes came to mind. Or perhaps nothing, leaving an even wider gap as I wondered what kind of things I could have been doing that would leave such a silence.

Worse was the fear that I would look over whatever I saw, malignant or benign, and feel nothing. That it would be like looking at the life of a complete stranger who just so happened to have my face and voice. The gap in my head would grow even wider, and I would once more have to face the idea that there was nothing there for me.

I realized Mr. Reyes was peering up at me curiously, and I shook off my thoughts. “Sorry, got a little lost my head there for a second.”

“That’s alright,” he said, making himself comfortable in his chair. “You ask me, far too many people don’t do enough thinking when they need to be doing some thinking. Does a man good to ponder…not too much, though. Nothing good comes of overthinking.”

Even though I’d only known him for a few days, I was used to his constant life advice. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Naw, ya won’t. Young people never listen. I know, I was one once,” he said with a chuckle. “And then you’ll get old and start grumblin’ about all the young ones not listening to you.”

Without thinking, I reached down and patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the circle of life for you. Thanks for the conversation, but I think I need to get to stretching my legs. I’ll probably spot you later.”

“Gonna be at that clinic again?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded slowly. “That Eric boy, he’s a good sort. Not many of those around here. You keepin’ an eye out for him?”

“Trying to, but he’s doing the same for me,” I said with a shrug.

“Good. Decent people need to watch each other’s backs.”

I wasn’t so sure I was one of those decent people, but I nodded. “You take it easy, Mr. Reyes.”

“You too, Dylan.”

* * *

As I had done the past few nights, I arrived early at the clinic by only a few minutes. At least this time, the receptionist barely paid me any mind when I walked into the lobby to sit down and wait. It was a change of pace from the first few times when she’d openly watched me with deep suspicion. I honestly thought it was because of my silence as I sat in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, content to let the time tick by as I waited for Eric to get off his shift.

Hearing Eric’s voice approaching after only ten minutes, I glanced out the window. I spotted a familiar hunched figure making his way slowly but steadily down the sidewalk. Waiting to see if Mr. Reyes would look up, I watched him walk his course until he was out of sight.

Eric appeared, phone in hand, his ID badge tucked out of sight. He looked worn down, but he’d looked like that every night. I could understand. His job had to be taxing, even as he swore up and down that he enjoyed it.

“Right on time,” he said with a chuckle, setting a stack of folders on the main desk beside the receptionist. “Here you go. Sorry I’m a little late, Rebecca.”

She scoffed, pulling the stack toward her. “It’s been a bigger madhouse than usual. You’re fine, sweetheart.”

He smiled tiredly at her. “Tell me about it, thanks.”

I stood up as he approached, frowning. “Something happen?”

Eric grimaced, glancing around to see it was just the three of us. “It happens every once in a while. Streets have been pretty quiet around here, so we knew something was bound to happen. I guess some new gang is trying to muscle their way into the area, and the locals are getting caught in the turf war. Had a lot of smacked around, angry people coming in today.”

Just as he said it, I caught sight of the bruise on his shoulder at the base of his neck. “That from one of them?”

Eric’s hand stole up to his neck, and he winced. “It was…it’s fine. It’s part of working here.”

“It’s not fine,” I told him sternly, ignoring the disapproving glare I received from the receptionist. “You’re trying to help these people, and they—”

“He was drunk, stabbed, and freaking out,” Eric told me gently. “People do really weird and sometimes violent things when they’re scared, alright? He didn’t mean it.”

“You don’t know that,” I said, wanting to reach out and run my finger along the mark as if that would somehow make it better.

“I do,” he said, waving to the receptionist and heading toward the door. “And I know he was also very apologetic about the entire thing when he calmed down.”

I sighed, following him outside. “And why wasn’t he in a hospital? You said he was stabbed, right?”