5. Nimble #2
Morgan looked very much like he wanted to rest his arms on the table and lay his head on them, and would have, except for the fact that the bag of groceries was exactly where Nimble had put it—where Morgan had asked Nimble to put it—and was in the way.
“Think you’ve already taken them,” Nimble said slowly.
Nimble was in this man’s house and invited to stay on account of a blizzard. Morgan had been through a wringer, was currently wiped out from climbing the stairs, and had a bad knee. He was offering shelter, a hot shower, and food.
And, in spite of his grumpy complaints, he’d given Nimble the run of the store.
He now seemed to be giving Nimble leave to explore the entire apartment, which went the length of the shop below, with windows on either side, wide to the storm, where the blizzard swirled and danced, as if trying to get in.
Nimble glanced at the bottles on the table. The empty glass.
Maybe Morgan had closed the bottles and finished the water in the glass. Simply that. Or maybe he’d taken more pills than he should have. But how many?
Silently, Nimble thought back. Morgan had taken his pills before Nimble had started bringing the rest of the groceries up the stairs. And, based on the now-closed bottles on the table, maybe he’d taken a second dose. Or even a third. Or more.
“Morgan?” Nimble asked in a cold, clear voice that didn’t sound like his at all. “How many have you taken?”
He moved close, close enough that he brushed up against Morgan’s bent knee, the right one. The left one was stretched out. And shaking.
Morgan stroked his thigh as though to soothe it, and when he looked up at Nimble, his face was a horrible pale shade, his blue eyes glassy. Hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, though the rest of his face was dry.
It struck Nimble hard that, in the middle of this storm, Morgan was alone.
Had Nimble not shown up, Morgan might have taken a dose, then another dose, forgotten, and taken another—with no one there to notice.
Or maybe he would have taken a bunch of pills on purpose.
To end up on the floor of this bright kitchen with nobody to look after him.
To die there while a blizzard raged outside, early in October.
Nimble had cared about Blue and Star. They’d all looked after each other as they hopped freights and scrabbled for food.
Had being the operative word, because he’d not been planning to care about anyone else after how they’d let him down.
However, the man in front of him seemed to be holding on with the weakest shaking grip, and only Nimble was there to save him.
He could, of course, take a shower, get something to eat, and let Morgan take care of himself. But that felt as wrong as being left behind by his two supposed best friends, and he did not have it in him to turn away.
“Morgan.” Nimble grabbed one of the amber bottles, the one that said Percocet, and knelt down—clumsy in his still-damp jeans and boots and leather jacket—in front of Morgan. “Morgan?”
Morgan’s chin had dipped to his chest, shoulders slumped inside his blue robe, breath thick, neck flushed. Up close he smelled of sweat, as though he’d not showered that day, or maybe for several days.
Nimble drew his fingers across Morgan’s cheek, then cupped his face. He gently shook the bottle to get Morgan’s attention, glad to hear there were still many pills inside, and he breathed deep, gratitude racing through him.
“Morgan?” he asked again. “Can you look at me? Can you tell me how much you took? How many pills?”
Morgan seemed surprised to see him there, blinking as though looking through fog. “Nimble?” he asked. Then he placed his hand over Nimble’s, pressing it more firmly to his face. “Don’t go. I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been.”
The words were mumbled, but at least he recognized Nimble, though Nimble didn’t know what Morgan was sorry for, except perhaps that his life was a mess and only Nimble was there to witness the disaster it had become.
“Not going,” Nimble said, doing his best to be cheerful and quiet at the same time. “Can you tell me how many pills you took?”
When Morgan blinked again and leaned his cheek into Nimble’s hand as though Nimble’s touch were his last bulwark before he was roughly pulled out into a black and angry ocean, Nimble asked again, “How many pills?”
“Trying to space ’em out,” Morgan said slowly, like he was at the beginning of a very long story.
He licked his dry lips and closed his eyes, like a man calling up memories that might very well hurt him.
“So, when you started. When you were carrying the groceries. One each. Then. Just a little while ago. One each.”
That meant Morgan had taken six pills inside of an hour. Nimble glanced at the Percocet bottle that clearly said one pill every four to six hours. Percocet was potent, even he knew that, but if Morgan had only taken two of those—
He stood up and put the Percocet down to look at the other bottles. Which meant that he was moving, and Morgan dropped his cane to grab at Nimble, fingers hooking into Nimble’s waist, tugging at his leather belt.
Normally Nimble would have shaken him off. Let go of me. But his hand was still on Morgan’s face, and Morgan was shuddering slightly, like he wanted to stand but couldn’t. So Nimble stayed still, as close as he could, and let Morgan cling to him.
“Hang on,” Nimble said. He looked at the first bottle. Rivaroxaban. He held the bottle in front of Morgan so he could see it.
“What is this for?” Then he realized Morgan couldn’t focus, so he read the label out to him and asked, “What is DVT?”
“Blood thinner,” Morgan said, barely moving his mouth. “Twice a day.”
“And this one?” Nimble read the long word slowly. “Cyclobenzaprine?”
“Muscle relaxant,” Morgan said as he sank forward until his forehead rested against Nimble’s belly. “As needed.”
“Okay, so.” Nimble blew out a breath and placed the bottles back on the table, little orange soldiers who had done their job and then some. “You took too many, but not so many. I think you can sleep it off. But first, water.”
Morgan’s head moved as though he was nodding. Nimble had to let go. Had to take his hand from Morgan’s hot face and unhook Morgan’s fingers from his belt so he could grab the glass on the table and fill it with water at the sink.
It felt like he was ripping off his own skin, but he knew it was the right thing to do. When he returned to Morgan’s side, water slopping down the edges of the glass, he knelt once more so he could look up at Morgan, mentally begging him to open his eyes.
“Morgan?” he asked softly.
Morgan did open his now-cloudy eyes, blinking as he attempted to focus.
“Drink this.” Nimble held up the glass with one hand, using the other to guide Morgan’s fingers to it. He waited until Morgan had a grip on the glass, and then cupped his hand around Morgan’s, steadying it as he raised the rim to Morgan’s lips. “Drink slowly.”
Nimble was no expert on overdoses, though he’d seen enough cop and hospital shows to have an idea that they involved a great deal of writhing and throwing up and gagging while stomachs were pumped, all against a backdrop of shocked faces.
This was nothing like that. Morgan drank slowly, as directed, lashes dark on his pale cheeks, breathing in and out between swallows, jaw tight and loose and then tight again. When he finished with a gasp, he lowered the glass to his robe-draped thigh and opened his eyes to look at Nimble.
“This happened once before,” Morgan said, voice thick like he was dredging up the mud of memories. “Bradley was so pissed.”
“Well, he’s not here now,” Nimble said, disdain covering the fact that he had no idea who Bradley was. Only that the man was a jerk to be pissed about something like this. “I’m here now,” he announced stoutly to cover the fact that his heart was only beginning to slow from its fast, anxious beat.
“You are,” Morgan said. With his free hand, he reached to cup the back of Nimble’s head, a steady, slow touch that reassured Nimble further. “That you are.”
“What did you do last time?” Nimble asked, his worry overlaid with warmth that pinned itself inside him.
“Slept.” Morgan took a hard breath that raised his chest, and then he let that breath out slowly, his body relaxing. “It off.”
Nimble grabbed the glass before Morgan could drop it and reached past him to place it on the table. “Then you sleep now.” Nimble stood up and grabbed Morgan’s hands to pull him to his feet.
Morgan came willingly but slowly, his gaze focused on Nimble like Nimble had suddenly appeared, angel-like, out of a dark storm.
“You want the couch?” Nimble asked, thinking the parlor might be closer than the bedroom. “Or your bed?”
“Groceries?” Morgan swayed a little, leaning toward Nimble like he needed to fall over but didn’t want to impose upon Nimble to catch him.
Morgan needed to lie down, and fast, and Nimble needed to make that happen.
“I’ll get those,” Nimble said, like he and Morgan were good friends and he was just doing Morgan a favor. “I’ll put away the groceries, take a shower, borrow your clothes, and make dinner. All of it. But you need to lie down first.”
“Yes, boss,” Morgan said, his eyes closing, those long lashes fluttering high on his cheeks, a little color coming back to his face. “Yes, boss.”
“Okay, this way.” Nimble looped his arm around Morgan’s waist, which, beneath the robe and floppy clothes, was taut, as though before his accident Morgan used to work out.
Morgan’s arm came around his shoulder, and as Nimble began escorting him out of the kitchen and across the chilly landing, he huffed and said, “You smell like train.”
“Sure do,” Nimble replied cheerfully.
He fumbled for the switch along the wall inside the parlor and then gave up. Sometimes old buildings had light switches in different places, but he didn’t want to mess around looking while Morgan was swaying on his feet, on the verge of falling over.
He eased Morgan into the parlor, the bright light from the kitchen enough to let him find the couch. There was a wooden coffee table that he shoved aside with his knee as he slowly and carefully led Morgan to sit down.
Morgan swayed a bit when Nimble knelt once more to slip off Morgan’s sneakers. Nimble figured everything else was comfortable enough for Morgan to sleep in.
“I had a Nana,” Nimble said, urging Morgan to relax until his head was on a cushion. “She liked to put her feet up.” Nimble lifted Morgan’s legs onto the couch. “Then she’d give me five dollars to bring her a can of striped paint.”
“There’s no such thing as striped paint,” Morgan mumbled.
“She knew that,” Nimble said quietly. “The five dollars was for me to spend.” He pulled down a blanket or quilt that was folded across the back of the couch and shook it out to lay it over Morgan, imagining it landing like a warm feather, and for that he could be glad.
“Shower,” Morgan barked, as though, now stretched out on the couch that he had described as wide and comfortable, he’d regained some of his irritability—though maybe this was just for show. “I mean it. You smell like train.”
“Yes, boss.” Nimble smiled as he took a good, long breath. He looked around the darkened room, listening to the wind and snow howling beyond the windows.
They were in the middle of nowhere, on an island in a sea of snow and cold. He was lucky to have shelter. Without it, he might have died. And without him, Morgan might have—
Nimble shook himself. He’d put the groceries away. Then he’d shower slowly, to give Morgan more time to rest.
Then he’d heat up soup for their dinner.
Toast with butter. And do the dishes afterward, which he used to hate doing back home.
Riding the rails, they’d sometimes rinse their metal bowls and cutlery, though if there was no water, they’d use sand to scrub them clean.
He was lucky to have hot water and soap now.
He’d take care of everything to pay Morgan back for not turning him over to the law, for giving him a warm place to sleep. For not asking questions that Nimble wasn’t ready to answer and only complaining that Nimble smelled like train.
Which he did. Of course he did. Trains had been his life for over a year, but for now, for a little while, at least, the world had given him something different.