Oliver Twisted

Crutch

"You think we could stay another day or two?" Reggie asked Ed, at the motel kitchen table. It was four in the morning, and neither one had been asleep.

While Ed knew nothing of Mouse, he did know the abysmal state of his transmission. And for him, that was enough to haunt.

"Well, they stuck me on a waiting list, so we won't have much choice," Ed growled.

To remove his mind from darker things, Reggie thought to ask a question. "Uncle Ed? Which of my parents do I remind you of the most?"

Ed looked at him. Looked at him. Looked at him.

"Well, you're alive. So I'd say neither."

So much for feeling better.

Reggie replied with a blank, beady-eyed stare. For several seconds he held it.

"You raw about something?"

"What do you think?" Ed pressed. "Before condemning me to a five-foot list of names, the guy did tell me one thing of interest. My transmission had a couple holes in it. Looked like bulletholes. You know anything about that?"

Another blank, beady-eyed stare. His poker face didn't get him very far.

"You little psychopath!" Ed exploded. "I oughtta have you committed!"

"But you were fine with me killing someone?" Reggie couldn't resist. "Also, psychopath?"

Ed paused, possessed by distraction. "You've...never heard that?" He sighed. "All those ten-syllable words yer always throwin' around, and ye don't know what psychopath means."

He thought, then, fishing around for an adequate answer.

Reggie could tell the act of thinking was enough to pain him terribly.

"It's kinda like...someone who don't feel things right. You do bad things but don't feel bad. Yer so impulsive it's stupid. Stuff like that."

"Oh," Reggie shrugged. "Well, then yeah, I guess."

Two mornings after her admission, the woman from the road woke up.

She found Mister Collier at the foot of her bed, watching. This alarmed her, initially, though there wasn't much energy left in her to show it. Her eyes got big, and she pressed back, into the flab of her pillow. The cast-iron headboard groaned.

"It's alright," Mister Collier assured. "This is a hospital. You're safe here."

She stilled, gauged, and slowly sank back down. There were beds and wounded bluecoats everywhere. Orderlies scurried and carts clattered.

Not much room to deny.

Mister Collier brought her some water, perhaps hoping it would revive her voice. She seemed the quiet type anyway—whether reserved or just suspicious.

She drank greedily, messily, like one having been marooned in the desert for weeks. By the time she was done, her bandages and sheets were soaked.

She still didn't talk.

When Mister Collier brought her a change of sheets, she finally broke. She surrendered a small "thank you" after he had pulled the old off, put the new on, and tucked her in like a child.

He smiled in response; and when his eyes returned to hers, he noticed there was less fear.

His first life saved. All he had to do was get her well enough to leave.

Anaya.

That was her name.

He came to learn this by day's end. Truly, it was the small victories.