Bremerton, Washington
Since yesterday, he had dissected his parting gift to his shrink until nothing was recognizable. He even wondered if his slicing-an-artery comment might be a cry for help but decided against the idea and shifted his thoughts to dealing with the consequences of his words.
Susan had stared at him for too long. It was her job to notice things. Hank could envision her dictating her report. He’s too skinny and says the wrong things.
A branch smacked his head as he sat up straight and a boyish smirk lit up his face. Susan might overlook things she observed, but there are words that a patient should never say to a shrink. What was I thinking? Cutting an artery? Bleeding out? He had crossed a line and it would alarm Susan.
And despite his hubris about being free to do what he pleased, they’d do anything they want—it was in the fine print. Nobody reads the details of an agreement before they sign. It was somewhere in the program’s contract and even without it, they’d react as they please. How many lives have they ruined? They’ll claim, “It’s for his own good.” Hank had seen it more than once—he’d even participated. Now he needed to shift his thinking. I am the patient. The vision repulsed him. His body lying in a hospital bed, feeding tube laced up his nose, down his esophagus into his stomach. Drugged out of cognition and function. For medical reasons. For his own good. People coming and going. One minute being treated like a sad, dying puppy and the next minute, left alone, a culture in a petri dish taking up space in the lab.
Hank’s stomach growled. He wasn’t sure why he had bivouacked in a greenbelt on the outskirts of town. Maybe it was because they expected it of mentally ill vets. More likely, the day's events and the four burgers, fries, and two beers at McDonald’s resulted in a blood sugar crash and left him in a brain fog. Another terrible choice. His joints ached, and all his clothes were soggy. Still, the last of the stars were showing through the yew tree reaching outward above him and he felt the renewal of hope that morning brings.
He focused the entire way and didn’t limp for the half-mile walk back to the McDonald’s. Hank was into his third cup of coffee when he noticed the three men at the table across from him. They were laughing, and the disruption gave him the answer he had been searching for.
“Where’re you guys from? I’m out now. Hospital Medic at NBK when I fell out.” Hank poured on the Maine accent and slurred the familiar acronym for Naval Base Kitsap, then managed an expectant look toward each of the three sailors sitting across the aisle.
“I’m from Jacksonville and these two losers pretend they’re from San Diego,” said a short, blond-haired twenty-year-old.
“I’m Hank… but my friends call me Hank.” He produced a quirky smile at his lame joke. Just one of many tools he had gained to disarm people. As a dock boy, he’d secured countless boats. Many of them worth millions of dollars. If the owner or captain came in sober, they might notice Hank's attention to detail and conscientious follow-through. But his smile earned him the biggest tips. Later, in ports around the world, a friendly smile spoke volumes that transcended language barriers. Then, in the service, his powerful smile softened the toughest marines and often made instant friends. To say that his smile had become part of his medic kit was not an exaggeration. It comforted injured men and women even when they were dying. But today, he used it to exploit a window of opportunity.
Jacksonville had a smartphone laying on the table in front of him. He guessed the boys from San Diego had implants. The next generation of phone technology had become popular with anyone who had the daring to get elective brain surgery.
“Hey Jacksonville, my phone died, and I need to call my boss. Mind if I use yours?”
The sailor pushed the phone over toward Hank. “Sure,” he said and softly cuffed his friend on the head and said, “Can I borrow your phone? Or is your brain dead?”
“Thanks,” Hank said.
“Good morning. Puget Charter & Island Sailing School. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi Joan. It’s Hank.”
“That’s not what my screen says.”
“Friend's phone. I’ve still got that gig, right?”
“I thought I was your only friend. Well, me and that skanky server at Doc’s.”
“Are you done?”
“You have no sense of humor,” Joan said. “Yes, you’re still on. Every other instructor has bugged me. They’re all snakes. The contract specifies you and only you—creepy. Better be here by three. Trust me, you don’t want to keep this client waiting. I have no clue why you’re getting this job, but you better not screw it up. And if you tell anybody I told you, I’ll kill you.”
“Can you do me a big favor? I’ll make it worth your while,” Hank asked.
“What is it?”
“If anybody asks about me. Where I am, what my next job is, where I’ll be—tell them I’m out of town and you don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“That’s easy. Everybody has me sworn to secrecy. One more lie won’t matter.” She swallowed loudly. “Creditors catching up?”
"Something like that."
“I like chocolate. And shoes.”
“Chocolate it is. Thanks, Joan. See you soon.”
Lost in their jokes, none of the sailors had paid any attention to Hank's conversation, and he caught Jacksonville by surprise when he slid the phone across the table. The sailor nodded and slid the phone into his pocket. Hank wondered if using someone else’s phone to call Joan might be excessive but quickly decided he was all in. From now on phones were tracking devices with a calling feature and he would not leave an electronic trail for anyone to follow.
As he bused his tray, he slipped his tablet into the trash and walked out into the parking lot. He reached under the rear bumper of a short bed delivery truck and jammed his phone into a hollow. His hand came out dirty, but the phone would stay put.
He lowered the brim of his cap, pulled his neck gaiter up over his nose, and donned his hood. Sunglasses would have extinguished his face entirely, but that would only draw more attention. Confident that facial recognition would at the very least be impaired, he walked the few blocks to one of Bremerton’s designated ride-sharing pickup points. There would be cameras and microphones, so he kept his head and his voice low. Even though it was illegal to bypass businesses and exchange cyber-currency peer to peer, it remained the option of choice for drivers trying to get ahead of the oppressive taxes. It only took a minute to convince a college student driving a Prius to go off the clock and take Hank home. Five minutes later, the car pulled up to the agreed upon location and the driver made a show of greeting an old friend. Hank casually played along before climbing into the front passenger seat.