Page 36 of Haunt Me

Another bottle.

Another place where nobody knows what I used to be.

Raven

The first few times he rented a motel room, I thought he was resting.

I didn't understand.

Not at first.

Sam didn’t struggle finding work. Every town had a garage with too many cars and not enough mechanics, and it usually took less than an hour before someone realized what he could do.

He'd spend the day beneath the hood of a stranger's truck or elbow-deep in an engine, collect enough cash to keep moving, and disappear before anyone learned more than his first name.

Each time I’d tell myself the next day would be different. That he’d wake up, point the truck toward Ashbourne, and finally go home.

But that doesn’t happen.

The room changes.

The bed changes.

The wallpaper changes.

Everything else stays exactly the same.

He drinks until he falls into a fitful sleep, and he wakes before the sun. He showers and shaves only when the beard starts to bother him. Pulls on yesterday's jeans, yesterday's boots, yesterday's pain, and walks out the door without looking back.

Then we do it all over again.

I stopped counting the towns and started counting the bottles instead.

Three this week.

Five the week before.

Two days without one after he found enough work to keep his hands busy.

Then four in a row.

I tell myself the numbers matter. That if I keep track of them, somehow I'll know when things are getting better.

They're not.

This morning he doesn't even finish the coffee.

He buys it because it’s what he’s always done. Three sugars and one cream. He takes one drink, sets it in the cupholder, and forgets about it until we’re pulling up in the next town. When he stops for gas, he tosses it into the trash nearly full.

I used to finish my coffee first. Then, I’d reach for Sam’s. He’d pretend to be annoyed every single time.

"You just finished yours,” he’d say.

"I know."

"So why are you drinking mine?"

“Because yours tastes better.” I’d smile into the cup before taking another sip.