confusion as he slowly, achingly sat up. “First Avenue…?”
“Hmm,” the man named Jarell made a face. “Looks like you had yourself a bigger binge than I thought. You’re in Wyatt City, friend. In New Mexico. Ring any bells?”
He started to shake his head, but the hellish pain intensified. He held himself very still instead, supporting his forehead with his hands. “No.” He spoke very softly, hoping Jarell would do the same. “How did I get here?”
“A couple of Good Sams brought you in last night.” Jarell hadn’t gotten the hint, and continued as loud as ever. “Said they found you taking a little nap with your nose in a puddle, a few blocks over in the alley. I checked your pockets for your wallet, but it was gone. Seems you’d already been rolled. I’m surprised they didn’t take those pretty cowboy boots of yours. From the looks of things, though, they did take the time to kick you while you were down.”
He brought his hand to the side of his head. His hair was filthy, and it felt crusty, as if it were caked with blood and muck.
“Come on and wash up, Mission Man. We’ll get you back on track. Today’s a brand-new day, and here at the shelter, the past does not equal the future. From here on in, you can start your life anew. Whatever’s come before can just be swept away.” Jarell laughed, a rich, joyful sound. “Hey, you’ve been here more than six hours, Mish. You can get your six-hour chip. You know that saying, One Day at a Time? Well, here on First Avenue, we say one hour at a time.”
He let Jarell help him to his feet. The world spun, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
“You got those feet working yet, Mish? That’s my man. One foot in front of the other. Bathroom’s dead ahead. Can you make it on your own?”
“Yes.” He wasn’t sure that he could, but he would have said nearly anything to get away from Jarell’s too-loud, too-cheerful, too-friendly voice. Right now the only friend he wanted near him was the blessed, healing silence of unconsciousness.
“You come on out after you get cleaned up,” the old man called after him. “I’ll help you get some food for both your belly and your soul.”
He left Jarell’s echoing laughter behind and pushed the men’s-room door open with a shaking hand. All of the sinks were occupied, so he leaned against the cool tile of the wall, waiting for a turn to wash.
The large room was filled with men, but none of them spoke. They moved quietly, gingerly, apologetically, careful not to meet anyone’s eyes. They were careful not to trespass into one another’s personal space even with a glance.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was just another one of them—disheveled and unkempt, hair uncombed, clothes ragged and dirty. He had the bonus of a darkening patch of blood on his dirt-stained T-shirt, the bright red turning as dingy as the rest of him as it dried.
A sink opened up, and he moved toward it, picking up a bar of plain white soap to scrub the grime from his hands and upper arms before he tackled his face. What he truly needed was a shower. Or a hosing down. His head still throbbed, and he moved it carefully, leaning toward the mirror, trying to catch a look at the gash above his right ear.
The wound was mostly covered by his dark shaggy hair and…
He froze, staring at the face in front of him. He turned his head to the right and then to the left. The face in the mirror moved when he moved. It definitely belonged to him.
But it was the face of a stranger.
It was a lean face, with high cheekbones. It had a strong chin that badly needed a shave, except for a barren spot marked by a jagged white scar. A thin-lipped mouth cut a grim line, and two feverish-looking eyes that weren’t quite brown and weren’t quite green stared back at him. Tiny squint lines surrounded the edges of those eyes, as if this face had spent a good share of its time in the hot sun.
He filled his hands with water, splashing it up and onto his face. When he looked into the mirror again, the same stranger looked back at him. He hadn’t managed to wash that face away and reveal…what? A more familiar visage?
He closed his eyes, trying to recall features that would’ve been more recognizable.
He came up blank.
A wave of dizziness hit him hard and he grabbed at the sink, lowering his head and closing his eyes until the worst of it passed.
How did he get here? Wyatt City, New Mexico. It was a small city, a town really, in the southern part of the state. It wasn’t his home…was it? He must’ve been here working on…working on…
He couldn’t remember.
Maybe he was still drunk. He’d heard about people who’d had so much to drink they went into a blackout. Maybe that was what this was. Maybe all he’d have to do was sleep this off and everything he was having trouble remembering would come back to him.
Except he couldn’t remember drinking.
His head hurt like the devil. Heaven knew all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep until the pounding in his brain stopped.
He leaned down into the sink and tried to rinse the cut on the side of his head. The lukewarm water stung, but he closed his eyes and persisted until he was sure it was clean. Long hair dripping, he blotted himself dry with some paper towels, gritting his teeth as the rough paper scraped against his abraded skin.
It was too late to get stitches. The wound had already started to scab. He was going to have a scar from this one, but maybe some butterfly bandages would help. He’d need his first-aid kit and…And…He stared at himself in the mirror. First-aid kit. He wasn’t a doctor. How could he be a doctor? And yet…
The men’s-room door opened with a bang, and he spun around, reaching beneath his jacket for…Reaching for…
Dizzy, he staggered back against the sink. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just this sorry T-shirt. And sweet Lord help him, but he had to remember not to move fast or he’d end up falling on his face.
“The Ladies’ Auxiliary is having a clothing drive,” one of the shelter workers announced in a too-loud voice that made many of the men in the room cringe. “We’ve got a box of clean T-shirts, and another one full of blue jeans. Please take only what you need and save some for the next guy.”
He looked up into the mirror at the stained and grimy T-shirt he wore. It had been white at one time—probably just last night, although he still couldn’t remember back that far. He pulled it up and over his head, gingerly avoiding the wound above his right ear.
“Dirty laundry goes into this basket over here,” the shelter worker trumpeted. “If it’s labeled, you’ll get it back. If it’s torn, throw it out and take two.” The worker looked up at him. “What size do you need?”
“Medium.” It was something of a relief to finally know the answer to a question.
“You in need of jeans?”
He looked down. The black pants he was wearing were badly torn. “I could use some, yeah. Thirty-two waist, thirty-four inseam, if you’ve got ’em.” He knew that, too.
“You’re the one Jarell called the Mission Man,” the shelter worker remarked as he searched through the box.
“He’s a good guy—Jarell. A little too religious for my taste, but that wouldn’t bother you, would it? He’s always giving everyone nicknames. Mission Man. Mish. What kind of name is Mish anyway?”
His name. It was… his name? It was, but it wasn’t. He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember his name.
Dammit, he couldn’t even remember his name.
“Here’s a pair what’s got a thirty-three-inch waist,” the shelter worker told him. “That’s the best I can do for you, Mish.”
Mish. He took the jeans, briefly closing his eyes so that the