The Stolen - Jason Pinter [98]
slept in the hospital that night, occasionally shifted positions in the waiting room. Amanda waking up on top of
me, then moving; me waking up leaning on her shoulder,
not wanting to move.
When morning came and the doctors confirmed that
Curt was out of danger, we went in to see him.
Our friend was heavily sedated. His leg was swathed
in bandages. We approached his bed, cautious, unsure if
he could hear us or understand what happened.
As I got closer, I heard Curt whisper, "Henry."
"I'm here, buddy." I took Curt's hand in mine. Amanda
stood beside me. I noticed her absently rubbing her hands
on her jeans.
"The Reeds," he said. Curt swallowed, with some difficulty. Then he licked his lips. "The Reeds, man. They
recognized Benjamin. They were scared."
I nodded, squeezed his hand.
"Find them," he said. "Now, get out of here before
somebody else shoots me instead of you."
Amanda and I walked out of the hospital like two
zombies who hadn't slept in weeks. Her eyes were bloodshot, her tank top caked with sweat and dirt. Her blouse
was in some medical waste bin. Now she wore a gray
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sweatshirt, two sizes too large. The only thing that had
survived the night physically and emotionally intact was
our car.
We began the drive back to New York in silence.
Amanda turned on the radio. Found some talk station that
neither of us listened to, but it at least punctured the
quiet. When we saw a rest stop, we pulled in and got a
few fast-food burgers for the road. We ate without
talking, arrived in New York three hours later barely
having said a word.
When we pulled onto the Harlem River Drive in Manhattan, I turned to Amanda.
"Where does Darcy live again?" I asked.
Amanda shook her head. "Just take me home."
"Where do you mean..." I began to say, but when
Amanda looked at me I realized what she meant.
I parked the car on the street, then walked back to my
apartment, finding Amanda's arm intertwined with mine.
I found an old pair of shorts that were too small for me,
and a Cornell T-shirt. Amanda put both on. The T-shirt fit
like a nightgown, drooping down to her knees. I turned off
all the lights and climbed into bed.
Amanda lay down next to me. I could hear her breathing, could feel my heart beating next to hers.
She turned onto her side, nuzzling her head into the
nook between my head and shoulder. Her arm wrapped
around my waist. And there she lay, soon drifting into
sleep. I watched Amanda for as long as I could, staring at
that face, knowing how hard it would be to spend one
more minute without it next to mine at night. I thought
about Curt and prayed he'd recover completely, thanked
whoever it was that watched over us that we'd escaped
with his life.
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Jason Pinter
I prayed that Caroline Twomey was still alive and healthy,
and that we would find her soon. I thought about all of that,
and then my muscles quit on me and I drifted to sleep.
37
I woke at seven-fifteen, like I did most mornings. My
alarm was set every day to go off at seven-thirty on the dot,
but my internal alarm had a wicked sense of humor, always
screwing me out of fifteen minutes of shut-eye a day.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I leaned over to see
Amanda rolled up in my comforter like a pig in a blanket,
only if the pig were a beautiful woman and... I decided to
just stop that train of thought before I accidentally said it
to Amanda and wound up with my head shoved up my ass.
She was still wrapped in my clothes, her eyes shut, snoring
lightly. I leaned over and shut off the alarm clock, then
rolled out of bed, picked some clean clothes out of my
dresser, went into the living room and got dressed there
so as not to wake her.
I left the apartment, picked up two Egg McMuffins and
two large cups of coffee, and was setting up breakfast on
my meager dining room table when Amanda appeared in
the doorway.
"Morning," she said, rubbing her eyes. She looked at
her finger--likely identifying a smudge of eye gunk--then
flicked it away. She offered a