Boston—around the same time
Johnny Givens ran for about an hour, until finally he had had enough. Not that he was tired—in fact, he felt strong, ridiculously strong. He just didn’t feel like running anymore.
But he didn’t feel like going home either, so he started walking instead. He walked around the Common and Faneuil Hall, though it was closed. He walked to the Aquarium—also closed. He walked to the North End, where the Italian restaurants were still doing a decent business. Though dressed in his tracksuit, he knew he could be served at Lou’s Basement, a small place generally skipped by tourists and run by a man friendly to cops; the hostess got Johnny a place at the bar and he sat for a while, eating homemade ravioli and watching the end of the Red Sox game, a victory in Seattle. By the time the game was over, the place was ready to close. Johnny left a good tip and went out walking again, this time with more purpose—he was going home to bed.
All this energy was a by-product of the drugs he’d been given. The therapist and the doctors had made it clear what to expect. Throttle back, they said, or eventually you’re going to crash.
So it was time to go home, even though he didn’t feel like sleeping.
Though by now it was close to 1:00 a.m., this part of the city was still lively, and as he wound his way in the direction of the T—no sense walking all the way home—he found himself in the middle of a small crowd. He started listening to the different conversations. A couple was talking about parents coming for a visit; another sounded desperate to have children. A feeling of estrangement fell over him; the people were talking about things he had always wanted—marriage, family—but now thought he could never have.
The doctors claimed there was no physical reason he couldn’t have children, let alone a girlfriend or wife. But who would want a cripple? Who would want a man with mechanical legs, no matter how good they were? They might look real in the street; they might even carry him farther and faster than his “originals”—the marathon might be an interesting test—but he took them off when he got into bed.
He began feeling sorry for himself. That was a bad trap, something he knew he had to avoid, yet he couldn’t help it. It was as if a cloud settled on his head, blocking out the positive feelings he’d felt earlier. Maybe it was the drugs wearing down—he ought to have taken his nightly dosage by now.
Or maybe it was reality.
People say, Hey, you’re doing fantastic. You’re really something! You’re an inspiration.
What they don’t know is what it feels like inside. They don’t know how much it sucks, truly sucks, not to have real legs. Not to be a full person, to be only half.
And yet, he was stronger, wasn’t he? His upper body had responded to the medicine as well—he could bench-press twice his body weight, something he’d never been able to do before. Sure, rehab helped, but the drugs were like supersteroids.
This is really a new life. What are you going to do with it? Wallow in your shit? Or be somebody?
Johnny began to run. It was a trot, slow at first, barely above a walk, but gradually he picked up speed. He passed the entrance to the T.
Closed. He’d dawdled too long.
Have to go home by foot.
He pushed himself, running, and hoping that by running he could escape the cloud and its despair.
He’d been running for only a few minutes when he heard sirens nearby. Instincts took over—he began running in their direction, heading with them near the harbor. He took a turn and found himself two blocks from the Smart Metal building. A police car, lights flashing, was blocking the street nearby.
Johnny ran up to one of the officers, who was waving away traffic.
“John Givens,” he said, pulling out his wallet clip for his FBI credentials. “What’s up?”
“Got a call of an intruder up the street.”
“Where?”
“Number ten.”
“Damn,” said Johnny. “Backup coming?”
“Yeah,” said the officer, but Johnny barely heard—he was already sprinting in the direction of the building.