Free Transience by Stevan Mena Page A

give you a new prescription at a higher dosage." Jack slid off the exam table and reached for his slacks, folded over a chair.   "I can also contact the department, recommend that you be placed on disability."
    "No.   Don't do that."
    "You're entitled."
    "I can't leave, not yet."
    "Alright." Dr. Moss continued writing the prescription. "Jack, the final stages can be very…difficult.   Is there someone at home to help you out?"
    "No."
    "No family?   Sister? …Brother?"
    Jack shook his head. "No one."
    "I know a very good hospice provider.   I can put in a good word for you, they sometimes have a waiting list." Dr. Moss signed the prescription and tore it off, extending it to Jack.   Jack folded it into his pocket without looking at it.
    "Take some time, think about it?"
    Jack nodded and the doctor left.   Jack finished buttoning his shirt, staring up at an anatomical poster of a man's insides.

CHAPTER 17

    Jack's knee smacked into the coffee table as he jerked up from his favorite recliner, still asleep — disoriented, knocking over a collection of standing beer bottles like bowling pins, sending one rolling loudly across the floor.
    He blindly threw out his hand to brace himself along the wall, sliding slowly towards the bathroom door.  
    A familiar voice buzzed on the TV in the corner.   As the blood level in his brain stabilized a bit, his eyes started to focus again.   He realized what it was that jolted him upright.
    It was his voice on TV.   A reporter was questioning him about Angelina's case in an interview outside the station.   Jack was walking fast, and the tiny reporter had to jog to keep up with him.
    She asked breathlessly, "Has there had been any news in the search for Angelina?   We're being told that your department has suspended their search?"
    Jack snickered. You've sure learned how to work the system, Carl. Good for you.
    "We're using every means at our disposal," Jack told the reporter, holding up his hand to block the camera's light.
    "Is there anything you can tell us?"
    "Nothing at this time." Jack sat into his car and closed the door on the disappointed reporter.   She turned to the camera to say something when the TV clicked off.
    Jack tossed the remote on the chair, turned, and a rush of vertigo caused him to stumble a bit.   He felt his way inside the bathroom and swatted on the light.   His hands found the sides of the sink and he leaned towards the mirror.   The fluorescent bulb really amplified his dry, pale complexion.   He seemed brittle, far older than his 42 years.   He made a pathetic grin, then stuck his tongue out.
    "You're defective," he exhaled through his nose, disappointed with the reflection.   "You're defective, detective."   He laughed morosely.  
    There were two toothbrushes floating in a small metal holder affixed to the white tile.   One was his.   The other, much older one, was Sarah's.   Dormant for over 12 years.   He couldn't bring himself to throw it out.   He touched it, it was real.   Funny, the things we leave behind, he thought.
    He needed so much to talk, unload his problems on someone.   Tonight the loneliness felt suffocating.   Almost unbearable.  
    He returned to his bedroom and opened the closet door.   He eyed the navy blue suit with an impending look.   He lifted it carefully by the hanger, so as not to crease the sleeve.   He stepped back and laid it out on the bed, carefully removing the clear plastic.
    He took out a clean white shirt and got dressed piece by piece.   The same way he dressed for work every morning.   Except this suit felt very different.   Scary, even — especially the perfect fit.
    He straightened his tie, checked the buttons on his sleeves, and laid down on the bed.   He folded his arms on his chest, assumed the eternal position and closed his eyes.  
    He felt his chest rise and fall with each deep breath, the dull pain in his lungs was growing sharp.   Another sound replaced his wheezy breaths.