Free Margaret's Ark by Daniel G Keohane Page A

time, and was short with him when she arrived. Still, he’d gotten a free glass of ginger ale, then. Everything was free here. There wasn't much food. Beggars can't be choosers , he thought. And he was a beggar, wasn't he?
    His arm hurt. He should leave. This quiet place was both frightening and familiar. The latter sensation was the most troubling, however; nothing he wanted to dwell on for long. There were two others in the room and one bed unoccupied. The old man across from the foot of Jack's bed whimpered softly in his sleep, fighting some unseen monster in his dreams. Jack risked a glance beside his own and gooseflesh crawled up his arms. The man next to him had the bed raised into a half-sitting position, the nurse having long forsaken asking him to lower it. He was a white kid, young, with long, stringy blonde hair. Jack thought he recognized him, but memory wasn’t his strong suit. The kid was awake, staring wide-eyed at Jack across the small chasm between them. It wasn't an expression of surprise, nor fear. Jack wasn't sure what the wild staring meant, except that the kid might be crazy. Maybe just broken , like himself.
    He returned the gaze for a moment, then looked back towards the window, feeling the other's stare linger on him but trying to pretend it wasn't there.
    The old man across the room coughed, seemed to wake for a moment, then fell into silence. The only sound was a single, exaggerated exhale, as if he were expelling the demons which had plagued him most of the night. In the murk cast by the lights of the parking lot outside, hazy ribbons of light draped across the man's chest. Jack waited for a sign he was still alive.
    “You're the preacher man,” the kid said, his voice clear but hushed in the darkness. Jack reluctantly looked his way, felt another wave of fear. This guy was off. “You're the preacher man, I said.” The smile faltered. Jack realized it was a question, not a statement.
    “Yes,” he said, his voice dry, cracked. God, he was thirsty. The pager was in his left hand. He pushed it. “God has sent me to -”
    “Maybe you should give Crack Head over there last rights. I think he just kicked out.” A giggle.
    Jack didn't look away. He stared at the kid's pale face. “God will care for all. That man was lucky.”
    The kid laughed again. “Yeah, lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky. Clucky and lucky and dead and rotting, clucky and lucky and -” He stopped then, any trace of a smile gone. “What are you looking at?”
    Jack lingered a moment longer, wondering what to do. He wanted to talk to someone, even this kid, talk about God and his mission. Of course, the last time he tried to preach in this place, they stuck him with a needle.
    His neighbor said nothing else, though he slowly raised his hand to his chest. Jack had seen the white gauze earlier, with small red stains across the front. He wondered if he'd been shot, and why the hospital didn't get him a new bandage.
    Jack turned back towards the window, closed his eyes. The kid beside him must have turned away, for Jack no longer felt his gaze on him. Maybe it was wishful thinking. He didn't want to check.
    He was still thirsty. The bed was comfortable. He prayed the angel would return. Let him know he wasn't crazy like the kid next to him.
    He eventually dozed. Lying in a comfortable bed was such a rare commodity, drawing him down even with a potential enemy beside him. Before falling asleep, he looked to the window, saw the neat pile of clothes on a chair. The folks from the Salvation Army had dropped them off earlier, but Jack pretended to be asleep. Why would he want to talk to them about Jesus? They were amateurs. He was the Chosen One. Officer Leary had come by, too. Jack chose to wake up for him, but the man only wanted to see how he was doing, didn’t stay long. As he’d turned to leave, Jack saw the cop stuff something into the pocket of the shirt on the chair. Jack hoped the kid in the other bed hadn't seen it.
    His