When you don't have anywhere to be, going anywhere is a smashing success. At least, that's how Brett saw it following weeks of staying in his apartment and ordering in food, supplies, and library books. There was actually something called a Bookmobile that would drop off whatever he desired from the local library. It was something Brett hadn't known he needed until he had it.

But that Tuesday afternoon in early October, he decided to challenge himself and actually drive to the pharmacy to pick up his medications. There was a part of him that craved other people even as he dreaded them. And maybe he'd see his neighbor on her way in or out of her apartment, though he hadn't seen her since that night she wished him sweet dreams and he had the best night of sleep of his life. 

The leaves were turning color, and he took a moment standing outside his car to stare. It was his favorite time of year, when the world took time to cool off. The reds and oranges burned his eyes, but it was a welcome transition from the grey and beige of his apartment. He was just about to swing open the driver's side door of his rusted blue Pontiac when who should appear but the girl from that night, the one he'd not dreaded seeing again.  

Calista. 

Her hair was dirty blonde in the daylight, cascading around her shoulderblades. She wore ripped black jeans and a black sweatshirt with "BADLANDS" emblazoned across the front. Without looking at him, she strode across the parking lot with a half-full bag of garbage and tossed it in the dumpster several yards away from his car. 

"Hey... hey." It was all he could think of to say. Socializing was not exactly his specialty. 

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and stopped, taking him in. Did she remember him from that night? Her face didn't betray her recognition, nor did her voice as she tossed a "hey" back in his direction. But she went on to ask, "Sleeping better?"

"Much." He grinned and didn't follow up with the "thanks to you" that popped into his head because that would be too forward and weird. He was used to being considered strange, but he didn't think he could risk being dismissed as a freak the first time he'd ventured out into the world in so long. Especially from this Calista. Especially if she could tame his fears with a few words in the middle of the night. That was something you couldn't bottle. "Thanks for asking," he said instead, the politeness ingrained by his mother since childhood. People could say a lot of things about Brett, but no one would ever accuse him of being rude.

She shrugged and squinted up at him, raising her palm to block the sun from her eyes. "The circles are gone," she said, and it took him a minute to figure out that he meant from beneath his eyes. "But you could do with some sun." Her voice was not unkind. She was just speaking the truth. 

He tried to think of an appropriate response, but she had already turned and was heading back into the apartment building. He turned back to his car, worried for a moment that he'd locked his keys inside, a common mistake that came from his medications messing with his memory, but the door opened easily. For a moment, he thought he saw his dog sitting in the passenger seat. He remembered taking him to the dog park or to the woods and hiking together with the beloved animal for hours. It had been a while since a thought like this struck him, probably since the last night with Calista, and he didn't care for it, this poignant vacancy inside his heart. 

Brett brushed the emotion aside and started his car, turning up the stereo all the way to block out the pain. Sevendust blasted into the car, and he found himself mouthing the words as they were screamed through the speakers. At a red light on the way, he strummed an imaginary guitar solo. It was enough to drive away the feelings of loss. 

There was a long line to pick up prescriptions at the drug store. Brett decided to kill time by walking the circumference and picking up a few grocery items. Frozen pizza, a twelve-pack of cream soda, things he could have delivered to him but he might as well grab it while he was out. He was inspecting a tube of Pringles when someone exclaimed his name from across the aisle. 

"Brett!" 

The voice was familiar, but he couldn't immediately place it. He hadn't been anywhere long enough to make an acquaintance since--

The girl closed the distance between them with a few steps. 

Lauren. 

It was Lauren, from the hospital. 

"I can't believe it's you," she said. "I was hoping you'd email me, but maybe that was too weird for you." 

It's not that it was weird. He just couldn't figure out what to say. If he struggled with thinking of words enough to fill out a benign parking lot conversation, writing an email to someone he met in a mental health facility was a whole different ballgame. Do you just start off with the intimate details of each other's lives that were shared in confidence, or do you have to somehow start over, pretending to not know that much and then getting to know each other again from the beginning, giving the other person the benefit of the doubt? Maybe they're better now, after all. Maybe their thoughts are different. His sort of were. But not completely. 

Vowing not to start another conversation with "hey," he said her name. "Lauren! It's been a minute." 

"Hasn't it?" She beamed at him. He had to admit, she looked good. Her brown eyes were shining, and she smiled broadly. "How have you been doing?"

He couldn't very well tell her he'd been sleeping like a baby, all at the power of suggestion from one of his neighbors, but he couldn't lie, either. "I'm okay. Some days are harder than others."

"Isn't that the truth? Have you had any flashbacks? From the ketamine?"

He thought of the glimpse of his dog just before he drove to the drugstore. "A few."

"But mostly things are going well?" Her voice was too bright, too hopeful. It rang just a bit false. It made him think she probably wasn't doing so well herself, and she was looking for a comrade in pain. 

"Comparatively," he said. "How about you?"

"I'm dying for another ketamine fix, but my insurance won't cover it." She dropped her voice. "I may have found another way, though. Are you interested?"

He wasn't, but he was polite. "Er..."

"Please, Brett. I need a wingman here." 

The metaphor didn't quite make sense, but he returned her smile gently. "I don't know if that's such a good idea..." He shouldn't have let his voice dangle the way he did. It was a force of habit, leaving his sentences up for other people to finish the way they'd most like the conversation to end. There wasn't that much he felt strongly about so it usually didn't matter. Not that he felt that strongly about refraining from taking the drug again. In fact, if he was honest, he remembered his experience--particularly the last one--rather fondly. The trip may have been confusing, but it was at least compelling.

"Please."

The magic word. 

"Okay," he said finally.