It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I’m moaning with every step I take now. Pain is a monsoon—drenching me inside and out. It’s a reminder of the many risks I’m taking. When I was there, I was comfortably numb. When I was there...
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
Finally, the subway. Fear penetrates the thick fog of denial as I move down the filthy stairwell. I try not to touch the rail, but I can’t descend without it. I wrap my fingers around the cool metal—consequences be damned.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I stick my dirty hand into the pocket of my jacket and flex my fingers, fumbling with my Metrocard. Somewhere nearby, a train thunders. I shiver. Inhale exhale. Quiet, Kellan.
It’s a losing battle. I’m panting like a runner. People back away and stare. I hear someone whisper, “no shoes,” and from another mouth, “addict.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
My head is still so foggy, but I realize I need to choose somewhere to go.
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I can only think of one hotel right now: the Carlyle, where Lyon and I stayed with Dad before he said goodbye to us that day in November. Almost a year ago. I bring my fist to my mouth. I pull my hand down at the last minute.
Now the train is here. People moving.
I manage the two steps up without losing my balance. It smells... like dirty laundry and old fruit. I grab a nearby pole, close my eyes to bear the pain in my feet.
The train lurches. I clutch the pole and let my broken body sway and tremble with the rocking mot
ion.
Time thins out and starts to twist around things like a string. I can’t control the moaning. My knees can’t hold my weight. I’m on the floor and there’s a woman kneeling by me.
“Honey—you look ill. Are you okay?”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I try to nod, even though the motion hurts my head.
“Would you like me to help you at the next stop?” she asks. “You’re not an addict, are you? You’re a veteran.”
It can’t be true. It isn’t true. It can’t be true.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I swallow, using the razorblade sensation in the back of my throat to stay conscious.
“We’re stopping now. You want me to help you off, honey, or call someone?”
I lick my cracked lips.
Hands and shoulders get me to my feet—maybe more than one set. I’m moving down the stairs. The hands let go. So much effort to stay standing. The next time I open my eyes, it’s because tears are spilling from them. I’m swaying under an awning. I don’t feel anything but pain.
“Come sit down, sir. Mr... ?”
“Walsh.” My voice is so soft, I doubt she hears me—but the answer satisfies me. I will never be Kellan Drake again.