A. Meredith Walters's Blog

Here's an extended teaser for my upcoming book- ASHES OF THE SUN- coming SPRING 2018!

**
There was a horrible noise. The kind that came from the depths of your soul. It ravaged. It destroyed.

"No!"

His scream pierced my heart and I knew what had happened. An irrevocable shift. Like an earthquake. Like the end of the world.

I waited outside listening to the cacophony of pain. The rise and fall of misery that came in waves. Bastian's cries. Anna's wails.

And then total and complete silence.

I took a breath and waited.

I closed my eyes and wished for the sun. It had always been my comfort. Reliable. But there was only darkness. Pitch black night that went on and on.

A door opened. Then it slammed shut. I could smell the subtle scent of wildflowers and shampoo that always lingered around Anna. I opened my eyes in time to see her run towards the house she shared with her father. I could hear her sobs and longed to go after her. Yet she never looked my way. She never sought me out. Our link had been fragmented.

That realization squeezed and contorted my heart. It shifted and strained into something unrecognizable.

In that moment I was filled with an awful self-loathing. I couldn't have stopped it. Not really. I knew what each of us would be asked to do. My entire life had hinged on that one absolute fact. But since Bastian, I knew it didn't have to be. That it shouldn't be. I had rejected my Awakening.

I shivered at the memory of Pastor Carter's righteous anger. In those seconds after my denial, he had looked like the worst kind of monster. And I had finally accepted everything Bastian had been telling me. I teetered over the cliff with nothing to brace my fall.

So David became the first. He made his choice. No one could have altered his plan. The ruined man that had arrived all those months ago had already been set on his course. He had come to The Retreat wanting the lies Pastor fed him. His heart was clouded by promises that would never be realized.

It's not my fault.

I kept telling myself that. Yet, I felt guilty all the same. As if I was complicit in David's fate and Anna's anguish.

I could have done something...

I should have known...

I berated myself over and over. Pummeling my conscience into oblivion. My legs could barely support the weight of my shame.

Then he was there.

The air stirred around me as he invaded my space. My comfort and my calm.

His eyes red and puffy. His complexion ashen. But I could feel his rage. It tasted like a bitten tongue.

"Did you know?" His question was a demand. It was an accusation. But at its core, it was quaking, overpowering fear.

I shook my head, the words that would accompany my denial stuck in the back of my throat.

I hadn't known. But I should have.

But my disgrace was my own. I couldn't let him carry that burden. Not now. Not after David. Staring at the man I had come to love in all ways that mattered, I couldn't imagine him coming back from this. Healing seemed like some far-off concept.

But there was steel in his bright blue eyes. A tightness to his mouth. And I knew that he was stronger than anyone gave him credit for.

He would burn this unbearable world to the ground and stand in the ashes.

Bastian's gaze cut through me. "You didn't?" I knew he had to ask again. He had to be sure. A betrayal of that magnitude would never be forgiven. He wanted to trust me. But this place had made a mockery of faith.

The silence inside the common room was louder than his voice. For the first time in my life, I hated it. I found no solace in the heavy presence of the others. I resented their mute acceptance.

I hated everything they were.

They had decided to cast me out. An exile of my own choosing, Pastor had said. And now they had taken something from the man I loved. Taken a piece of him that he would never get back.

But they wouldn't take me. That I could give him freely. For once, the choice was well and truly mine.

"No, Bastian. I didn't know. But I know now." I took his hand. I squeezed it tight. I dug my fingers into his skin until he saw my truth. He'd bleed with it.

"I know now," I repeated.

His face softened. Anger seeped away. His tears fell. One at a time. But he continued to stand. Holding himself up. Holding us both up.

There were cracks. But he wasn't broken.

"I know now," I whispered, my own cracks splintering me apart.

He lifted my hand to his mouth. Held it there. The barest of touches. And when he let me go, the ground opened up beneath us.

But we wouldn't fall in.

"We have to go," he said, his entire body shuddered and then stilled. The steel returned.

And still the silence...

Then I made a decision. One I wasn't entirely sure of. One lacking in confidence but comprised of the deepest type of emotion.

And maybe that was the only faith I needed. A faith in him. A faith in us.

It washed away everything else.

"Then let's go." I wouldn't smile. Neither of us could bear the facade of joy.

Instead we would face grief together.

Bastian took a shaky breath and pulled me to him. Crushing me to his chest his lips found mine. Bruising, not tender. He poured the horror of the past twenty-four hours into me. I swallowed it up.

We would leave. There was no other plan to make. No other choice but the one that unfolded before us.

We'd run as fast and as far as we could.

Away from the fire.

I would learn to live with the cold.

**

Here's an extended teaser for my upcoming book- ASHES OF THE SUN- coming SPRING 2018!

**
There was a horrible noise. The kind that came from the depths of your soul. It ravaged. It destroyed.

"No!"

His scream pierced my heart and I knew what had happened. An irrevocable shift. Like an earthquake. Like the end of the world.

I waited outside listening to the cacophony of pain. The rise and fall of misery that came in waves. Bastian's cries. Anna's wails.

And then total and complete silence.

I took a breath and waited.

I closed my eyes and wished for the sun. It had always been my comfort. Reliable. But there was only darkness. Pitch black night that went on and on.

A door opened. Then it slammed shut. I could smell the subtle scent of wildflowers and shampoo that always lingered around Anna. I opened my eyes in time to see her run towards the house she shared with her father. I could hear her sobs and longed to go after her. Yet she never looked my way. She never sought me out. Our link had been fragmented.

That realization squeezed and contorted my heart. It shifted and strained into something unrecognizable.

In that moment I was filled with an awful self-loathing. I couldn't have stopped it. Not really. I knew what each of us would be asked to do. My entire life had hinged on that one absolute fact. But since Bastian, I knew it didn't have to be. That it shouldn't be. I had rejected my Awakening.

I shivered at the memory of Pastor Carter's righteous anger. In those seconds after my denial, he had looked like the worst kind of monster. And I had finally accepted everything Bastian had been telling me. I teetered over the cliff with nothing to brace my fall.

So David became the first. He made his choice. No one could have altered his plan. The ruined man that had arrived all those months ago had already been set on his course. He had come to The Retreat wanting the lies Pastor fed him. His heart was clouded by promises that would never be realized.

It's not my fault.

I kept telling myself that. Yet, I felt guilty all the same. As if I was complicit in David's fate and Anna's anguish.

I could have done something...

I should have known...

I berated myself over and over. Pummeling my conscience into oblivion. My legs could barely support the weight of my shame.

Then he was there.

The air stirred around me as he invaded my space. My comfort and my calm.

His eyes red and puffy. His complexion ashen. But I could feel his rage. It tasted like a bitten tongue.

"Did you know?" His question was a demand. It was an accusation. But at its core, it was quaking, overpowering fear.

I shook my head, the words that would accompany my denial stuck in the back of my throat.

I hadn't known. But I should have.

But my disgrace was my own. I couldn't let him carry that burden. Not now. Not after David. Staring at the man I had come to love in all ways that mattered, I couldn't imagine him coming back from this. Healing seemed like some far-off concept.

But there was steel in his bright blue eyes. A tightness to his mouth. And I knew that he was stronger than anyone gave him credit for.

He would burn this unbearable world to the ground and stand in the ashes.

Bastian's gaze cut through me. "You didn't?" I knew he had to ask again. He had to be sure. A betrayal of that magnitude would never be forgiven. He wanted to trust me. But this place had made a mockery of faith.

The silence inside the common room was louder than his voice. For the first time in my life, I hated it. I found no solace in the heavy presence of the others. I resented their mute acceptance.

I hated everything they were.

They had decided to cast me out. An exile of my own choosing, Pastor had said. And now they had taken something from the man I loved. Taken a piece of him that he would never get back.

But they wouldn't take me. That I could give him freely. For once, the choice was well and truly mine.

"No, Bastian. I didn't know. But I know now." I took his hand. I squeezed it tight. I dug my fingers into his skin until he saw my truth. He'd bleed with it.

"I know now," I repeated.

His face softened. Anger seeped away. His tears fell. One at a time. But he continued to stand. Holding himself up. Holding us both up.

There were cracks. But he wasn't broken.

"I know now," I whispered, my own cracks splintering me apart.

He lifted my hand to his mouth. Held it there. The barest of touches. And when he let me go, the ground opened up beneath us.

"We have to go," he said, his entire body shuddered and then stilled. The steel returned.

And still the silence...

Then I made a decision. One I wasn't entirely sure of. One lacking in confidence but comprised of the deepest type of emotion.

And maybe that was the only faith I needed. A faith in him. A faith in us.

It washed away everything else.

"Then let's go." I wouldn't smile. Neither of us could bear the facade of joy.

Instead we would face grief together.

Bastian took a shaky breath and pulled me to him. Crushing me to his chest his lips found mine. Bruising, not tender. He poured the horror of the past twenty-four hours into me. I swallowed it up.

We would leave. There was no other plan to make. No other choice but the one that unfolded before us.

We'd run as fast and as far as we could.

Away from the fire.

I would learn to live with the cold.

**

I have a new book out on February 18th called, One Day Soon! This is a stand alone, second-chance romance.

Today I am offering Chapter 1 so you can get to know Imi and Yoss!

*Unedited**

Enjoy and don't forget to pre-order your copy today-for just $2.99!- http://amzn.to/1SCCGnP

********************
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day

I had thought myself content in my unassuming existence.

I had spent the last fifteen years force-feeding myself lies that made the endless days more palatable. Reality was easier to face when it was painted with dishonest fantasy.

I was content. Not happy. There was a distinct difference between the two.

It started like the worst kind of day.

Because I was late.

Very late.

And I was never late.

I was the kind of woman who made it a point to be thirty minutes early for everything. Doctor’s appointments. Dinner dates. Root canals.

Not that morning.

The universe seemed to be working against me. Everything that could have gone wrong, did. My alarm didn’t go off. I ran out of shampoo. My car wouldn’t start.

Bad days began with bad mornings and it seemed this one was no exception.

“Im! There you are!” Bright red dye job. Too much lipstick. A smile that stretched and strained uncomfortably. Tess Finley click clacked down the hallway, hands flapping and shirt slipping dangerously low on her chest.

I wiped at the brand new coffee stain on the front of my shirt, feeling self-conscious. “Hey there, Tess. You’re looking decidedly frantic this morning,” I said, pulling my purse up on my shoulder and heading towards my office.

“Jason wants those reports that you promised him last week. He’s been hounding me already,” my co-worker huffed, her short legs struggling to keep up with my longer strides.

I fumbled through my purse, trying to find my keys. Breath mints. Check. Band aids. Check. Two-week-old power bar. Check. I found my keys buried under a mountain of gum wrappers and napkins from the hospital cafeteria.

I unlocked my office door and stepped inside, turning on the light and taking off my jacket. It was cluttered yet mostly organized, just as I had left it. I stepped over the piles of old files and dropped my purse on my desk next to my collection of cartoon character paperweights and ceramic farm animals.

I felt better surrounded by lots and lots of things. The more useless junk the better. My ex-husband, Chris, called me a hoarder. It was one of the nicer names he used to describe me towards the end of our marriage.

“I have them. I was working on them before I left last night,” I told her.

I smoothed out my shoulder-length brown hair wishing I had time for a cut. I knew my split ends were reaching a critical point.

I shuffled through the papers, knowing exactly where I had left them. To anyone else the haphazard piles would have seemed like disorder. But everything had its place and had been put there with care.

“How you can find anything on this desk, is beyond me,” Tess paused, squinting her overly large blue eyes at my blouse. “Did you know you have big stain on your shirt?” Tess asked, pointing at the noticeable wet spot.

I sighed, handing her the reports she asked for and picking up my coffee cup, a giant purple monstrosity with a chip on the rim. I grimaced at the cold liquid still inside. I must have forgotten to wash it out before leaving yesterday. Gross.

“I need coffee, you coming?” I asked, quickly walking out into the hallway, knowing chatty Tess would be hot on my heels. The woman had never met a conversation she couldn’t dominate.

“The coffee machine in the breakroom is broken. I had to go up to ICU and raid their supply,” Tess warned and I bit down on my frustrated groan.

Tess stared pointedly at my ruined shirt. “But seriously, Imogen, I have another blouse in my office if you want to change. It’s my spare in case I decide my day requires a wardrobe change.”

“What sort of day requires a wardrobe change?” I chuckled, amused. Tess, even though she was a bit overbearing, could be counted on to make me laugh.

Tess flipped her hair of her shoulder in an exaggerated gesture. “Oh you know, if the sun comes out, or I decide to eat with the doctors at lunch. Or if I need a quick pick me up.”

“Makes total sense,” I conceded.

“And you, my friend, need a day changer, stat.” Tess raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

I walked with Tess down the narrow corridor. The hospital was buzzing with its usual cacophony of emergency and chaos. It was draining. It was exhilarating.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I had been working as a social worker at Lupton Memorial Hospital for almost seven years. I had been hired just out of college and had been there ever since.

I was a firm believer in roots. In establishing them. In maintaining them. It was the same with my collections of knickknacks. I needed the scheduled, the familiar, in order to feel settled.

My ex-husband said I was stuck. That I was so deeply entrenched in my routine that I refused to live in the now. He had complained that I lacked spontaneity.

I hadn’t been hurt by his dismal assessment. I had embraced it.

My ex-husband had no idea what it was like to live a life of never ending spontaneous moments, whether you wanted them or not.

In my experience, impulsivity had never been a good thing. Not for me anyway.

“I’m thinking of trying to pass it off as a new fashion trend. Think I can pull it off?” I asked, smoothing out my still damp shirt.

Tess smirked. “That is a definite no.”

I snorted and we both laughed. We got into the elevator, smiling greetings to hospital staff as we shared the tight, claustrophobic space on our way up to find caffeine.

“The ladies in the ER told me it was crazy in here last night,” Tess said as we got off on the fifth floor and headed towards the ICU staff breakroom. I pulled out my ID and swiped it through the card reader on the door before going inside.

A couple of nurses were eating while a doctor, still in scrubs, was sleeping, sitting upright in a chair in the corner.

“Oh yeah?” I was barely listening. My thoughts were on coffee. And the donuts piled on a plate in the middle of the table. The one with pink icing and sprinkles was calling my name.

“Apparently the police brought in some homeless guy they found downtown around four this morning. He had been beaten within an inch of his life. No ID or anything. Guess one of us will be the lucky one with that case today,” Tess griped, picking up the pretty pink donut I had been eyeballing and shoved it into her mouth.

I rinsed out my mug and quickly poured my coffee, annoyed that I was now donutless.

“Then there was the lady who came in because she accidentally super glued her hand to her boyfriend’s ball sack.”

“What?” I sputtered. I had been drinking my coffee and then I wasn’t. Another stain joined the first on the front of my shirt.

“You’re definitely going to need my extra blouse,” Tess observed, handing me a wad of napkins.

“Hang on a minute, you need to explain the super glue. And the ball sack. And the hand super glued to the ball sack.” I wiped the excess coffee from my shirt, but gave up in the end.

I balled up the napkins and tossed them in the trash. Tess grabbed another donut and took a giant bite.

“Amy in the ER said that the guy was trying to hold up his pants with one hand and hold a coat over his crotch with the other. Apparently the lady thought the glue was lube. Though I’m not sure how you could confuse the two.” Tess spoke with her mouth full, so the words were muffled.

“Sounds like pure Darwinism to me,” I snickered. “Nature was ensuring those winners didn’t breed and further pollute the gene pool.”

“We miss all the good stuff! I wish someone had taken pictures,” Tess whined.

I reached across the table for a packet of sugar and succeeded in knocking over the rest of my coffee.

“I think you need to stay away from all liquids today. You’re potentially destructive.” Tess handed me another wad of napkins to clean up my mess.

“Maybe I should just go back to bed,” I complained, half irritated, half mildly pathetic.

“You could snuggle up with Mikey over there,” Tess suggested, looking across the room to the scrubbed up doctor, snoring like a chainsaw with drool coating his chin.

“I’ll pass,” I chuckled.

We made our way back to the elevator after I cleaned up the spilled coffee as much as I was able to. I wasn’t in a rush to start my day so I dawdled with Tess, letting her tell me about her latest eyebrow wax gone wrong.

“And look, Im, they are half the size they used to be!” Tess pointed to her forehead and I pretended to consider what she said.

“You could always draw them in with a pencil or something.” I shrugged. What did I know about makeup? Foundation and lip-gloss were the extent of my primping.

Tess looked at me as though I had started spouting German. “What?” she gasped as though I had suggested something horrible like Botox or implants.

I let her prattle on about perfect eyebrow curvature and for once I didn’t mind. I was in a mood.

A surly, crappy mood.

And I wanted to put off going back to my office for as long as possible.

It was unusual to not want to rush into my job. Work was my life. It was all I really had. I compressed my entire existence between the hours of nine and five. Those were minutes I’d smile and have actual conversation with real life people. I would deal with people’s problems and find them solutions.

It was the best part. The only part worth living.

Now anyway.

At one time, I thought things could be different.

I used to be a wife. Not anymore.

I thought I would be a mother. My body had other ideas.

I was one of those women that had had notions about where my life would take me. Once I was in a position to make plans, I made them. Lots of them. I had made a promise to figure my life out and I had made it my mission to do just that. When I was younger, I had been headstrong and overly complicated. A bit on the emotional side with a flair for the dramatic.

Years had dulled me. They had left me a shell of the girl I had been. I thought I was happy to see her go. I couldn’t afford to be the Imogen Conner I used to be. She had been all too easy to destroy.

Most lives can be narrowed down to significant moments. Mine was no different.

I knew the event that had changed me.

“Uh-oh, there’s Jason. I’m going to try to make a break for it before he sees me,” Tess whispered, shoving the reports I had given her earlier in my hand.

“I think you’re safe. He has the I’m-hunting-Imogen look on his face,” I assured her with a smile.

Tess patted my arm. “If you need me, bang against the wall three times. I’ll start a fire or something,” she said, slipping into her office.

“Why three times?”

“In case I don’t hear the first two, of course!” Tess said quickly as she darted into her office.

Of course.

“Imogen, there you are. I’ve been waiting here for over ten minutes,” my boss, Jason Valerio called out. He was wearing a new hairpiece and I didn’t have the heart to tell him it still didn’t hide his receding hairline. The fifty-five-year-old man was going through a very obvious mid-life crisis. Between the toupee and the new shiny sports car in the parking garage, all he needed was a girlfriend named Bambie and he’d have every stereotype covered.

I knew he was the focus of a lot of behind the hand snickering around the hospital. I had heard the hateful comments about his pectoral implants and Tinder account but I felt nothing but sympathy for my try-too-hard director.

His wife had left him over a year ago for his best friend’s twenty-something son. His pride, his ego, and his heart had taken a hammering. I understood his need to reinvent himself, even if I would never follow in his overly flamboyant footsteps.

“Sorry, Jason, the coffee machine on our floor is broken again. I had to hike up to ICU if I wanted to be semi-human,” I told him, ushering him into my office.

He discreetly rearranged the chunky strands of fake hair on his forehead and I pretended not to notice. He handed me a thin folder. I took it and watched as his thumb ran over the thin, gold band that he still wore. I wondered when he’d finally remove his wedding ring.

I absently rubbed the naked skin of my finger where my own metal brand used to sit, thankful that the weight was gone.

“I heard you were asking about these.” I passed him the reports and he barely glanced at them, tucking them under his arm.

“Thanks. That’s great. So, got a new one for you. And it’s a bit of a doozy.”

I sat down behind my desk and opened the folder, sipping on my now cold coffee. “Is this the homeless guy the police brought in?” I asked.

Jason blinked in surprise. “You know about him already?”

I nodded. “Tess told me.”

Jason pursed his lips. “I should have known. Sometimes I think she should have my job. She hears things much sooner than I do.”

I looked down at the patient’s ER admission paperwork. No name, just basic information.

Caucasian male in his late twenties-early thirties.

Severe swelling of the left orbital socket.

Twenty-three hairline fractures along the right cheekbone.

Facial contusions and significant bruising.

Some mild brain trauma resulting in temporary loss of consciousness.

Currently in ICU.

“But then who would bring me muffins every Friday?” I asked and he grinned.

“It’s only because I know how cranky you can get without the necessary intake of sugar,” he argued good-naturedly.

“So tell me about this guy.” I scanned the rest of his information and didn’t see much. The police found him under Seventh Street Bridge a little before three-thirty in the morning. I stiffened marginally at the name of the familiar Lupton landmark, but then forced myself to relax.

“He appears to be homeless. One of the police officers recognized him from that burned out warehouse out on Summit Avenue. The one that had that horrible fire years ago. You know, the place people say the homeless congregate—”

“The Pit,” I corrected sharply, cutting him off. “I know the place. They don’t congregate there. It’s where they sleep. It’s dry, for the most part, if not the safest.”

Jason frowned, clearly confused by my tone. “Right. Well, one of the officers had spoken to him several times in the past for possible solicitation, though he couldn’t be sure of the man’s name. When they found him he was already unconscious and bleeding badly.”

“They didn’t ask around to find out who he was?” I asked incredulously, staring down at lines of facts about the nameless man.

Jason shrugged. “They were called out to a car accident minutes after dropping the guy off, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t important to them at the time.” His words were hateful, but also true.

A beat up homeless guy would be far down on the Lupton City PD’s list of priorities.

“So I get the honors of figuring out who he is, huh?” I deduced.

Jason leaned over and patted my hand. “There’s no one better for the job.”

“You mean no one else wanted it,” I amended.

“Tess’s case load is high right now and I know you just closed Ryan Sinclair’s file,” he explained.

“That’s fine. I’ll take it. Someone needs to find out who he is and whether someone’s looking for him,” I said softly, flipping through the pages in the folder.

Internal hemorrhage. Scalp lacerations. Broken ribs. Whoever he was, he had been badly abused then left for dead. The least I could do was find out the man’s name.

“Speaking of your former client, I received a call yesterday from Samantha Sinclair. She wanted me to know how much she appreciated your support during Ryan’s stay. She said it was important that your superiors knew what a fantastic member of the hospital staff you are,” Jason said and I had to smile.

Ryan Sinclair was one of the few cases that I could feel good about. Being a social worker didn’t lend itself to many warm fuzzy moments. But Ryan’s case had been special.

The five-year-old child had been rushed to the hospital two months ago with severe head trauma after a car accident involving his mother and ten-year-old sister. Mrs. Samantha Sinclair and little Kelsie had made it out with only bumps and bruises.

Ryan wasn’t so lucky. The little boy was taken into surgery on arrival to relieve the cranial pressure he had endured. He remained in a coma for almost a week afterwards.

The doctors hadn’t been sure if he’d make it. The prognosis had been iffy at best. And if he did pull through, his grief stricken family had been told that he would most likely be a vegetable. That decisions would need to be made.

I was assigned the case to start coordinating support services for his parents in preparation for the boy’s probable death.

It was hard. Incredibly so. I spent a lot of time consoling a destroyed mother and placating a very angry father. I had been both punching bag and shoulder to cry on. But that was my job and I bore everything the family threw at me.

I worked with grief services to coordinate counseling. I talked with Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair about their options for Ryan’s on-going care.

We discussed instituting a Do Not Resuscitate plan.

But Ryan didn’t die.

And he didn’t remain a vegetable either.

I visited with his parents day after day while the little boy fought with everything he had.

One of my fondest memories would always be the morning they pulled the tube out of his tiny, little throat and he began breathing on his own.

I had been standing beside his bed, Mrs. Sinclair had been holding onto her husband. All of our eyes were trained on the tiny body lying in the bed. The doctor slowly, carefully pulled the tube from his mouth.

And we waited.

And waited.

The minute his chest began to rise and fall, his mother fell to her knees sobbing. His father covered his face and wept.

And I stood there; smiling so wide that my cheeks ached for hours afterwards.

Ryan eventually woke up. Remarkably, with no long-term brain damage. His recovery had baffled his doctors, but not his family.

“He’s the strongest person I know. Of course he’ll be fine,” his father had said proudly just after Ryan had finally opened his eyes for the first time since before the accident.

Ryan Sinclair had been discharged from the hospital two weeks ago. Happy, healthy, and ready to go back to school.

“They’re an amazing family. I’m just glad I could help them in whatever way I could,” I said simply, embarrassed by the compliment.

Jason shook his head. “You give yourself too little credit, Imogen.”

I cleared my throat and shuffled through the new paperwork again. “I guess I should go check on the new patient then.”

“The police were back an hour ago and took a picture of him. They’re going to start trying to ID the man. Or at least get a name. They already notified the homeless coordinator so I’m expecting a busy day for you.”

“I should get a jump start on it then. Tracey gets a little territorial over these cases. If I want to get a leg up I don’t have any time to waste.” I got to my feet and grabbed the folder. Tracey Higgins was the local homeless coordinator and we had worked together a lot over the years.

She proclaimed herself the knight in shining armor for the city’s homeless. Her ego made it impossible to like her. Her self-indulgent savior complex made physical violence a very real possibility. But I had perfected the art of smiling politely all the while thinking of very horrible names I’d like to call her if given the opportunity.

“Don’t let her push you around. We all know how Tracey gets when she feels self-righteous and entitled,” Jason said firmly.

I patted my well-meaning boss’s arm as I passed by him on my way out of my office. “I can handle Tracey. I’ve dealt with worse people than her.”

“I know you can, Imogen. You’re one tough cookie. After everything you’ve been through lately with Chris—”

“I’ve got to get upstairs,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to talk about my ex-husband. Or my upcoming divorce. Or how I should be dealing with the end of my five-year marriage.

I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to Jason Valerio that I felt very little about any of it. It wasn’t like I was numb. I was just indifferent.

The truth was that had been what killed the marriage in the first place.

My overall lack of interest.

Jason frowned, but didn’t push me. He knew better. “Okay, well I’ll check in with you later.”

“Thanks, Jason,” I said sincerely, closing the office door behind us. With a final wave, I headed towards the elevator.

Up in the ICU, I stopped just outside of room 102 where the homeless man was moved. A nurse was leaving as I arrived.

“Hi, Jill,” I said, stopping as she closed the door behind her.

Jill, an older woman with eyes entirely too close together and an unfortunate abundance of facial hair, gave me a smile. “I heard you were given this case. I’m glad. I feel so bad for him.”

I peered through the window into the hospital room, but couldn’t see much beyond the monitors and a lump under a white blanket.

“What can you tell me about him?” I asked, opening the file and looking again at the details about my new mystery client.

Jill sighed and pulled out the chart that hung beside the door. “He came in pretty roughed up. He hasn’t really woken up enough for anyone to speak to him much. He had a CAT Scan around seven and it showed some swelling on the brain, but Dr. Howell thinks it will go down quickly, then he should regain consciousness. Though from what I’ve heard about how he was found, maybe he doesn’t want to wake up.”

I made notes on my pad of paper and nodded. “I heard he was found underneath the Seventh Street Bridge,” I said lightly, hoping Jill didn’t pick up on the tightness in my voice.

Seventh Street Bridge.

Like a sledgehammer, the memories always came. Fifteen years and they still hit me with a crushing weight.

“I’ll meet you under the bridge. I promise. Wait for me, Imi…”

Jill finished her notations and handed me the patient’s chart. I read through the medical jargon quickly and didn’t see any further information that I hadn’t already been given.

“He’d been beaten pretty badly. The police seem to think he had been attacked by a…” Jill leaned in close and dropped her voice into a scandalized whisper. “By a john. He’s some sort of male prostitute.”

She sounded horrified. Her disgust erased her earlier sympathy.

“Well, it’s a good thing it’s not our job to judge him then, isn’t it?” I remarked sharply, though I understood her censure too well. I had shared her revulsion once upon a time.

Jill’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean—”

I lifted my hand and waved away her words. “I was told that the police came by to take a picture. So they know he’s a hustler, but they don’t know his name?”

Jill bit down on her lip, looking contrite by my reprimand. “No. The detective that was here earlier said so many of them hang out by that bridge and near the river, they can’t keep track of them all. He thought he had spoken to him in the past though. So obviously this man has been out there doing whatever he was doing for a long time.” Jill made a face. “I just don’t get how people can do that sort of thing. To be used like that for money. It’s awful!”

“You have no idea what people are willing to do to put food in their belly or drugs in their body. A life on the streets makes people desperate,” I snapped.

“Oh, well, that’s true. But anyway, the detective left his card so you can call him.” She handed me a small white business card, which I promptly tucked into the case file.

They didn’t know his name. Only the sordid details of his obviously tragic life. The man had been thrown away. Discarded. Forgotten.

I felt my anger flare and my stomach knotted uncomfortably.

“Are you running blood tests to check for STDs?” I asked.

“Of course. We should get the labs back soon,” Jill answered.

I handed her the patient’s chart and turned towards the closed door. “Well let me go see Mr. Mysterious.”

Jill put a hand on my arm. “Just be prepared, he looks really bad.”

I didn’t need the warning. I had seen some awful things in my seven years at the hospital. I was positive I could handle it.

“I’ll be fine.” I twisted the doorknob and walked inside, clutching the client file to my chest.

“But you can tell he’s a looker. Such a waste,” Jill muttered.

Don’t smack the nurse. That would be bad, Imogen, I reminded myself. Instead of commenting, I shut the door in Jill’s face.

The room smelled sterile. Too clean. Even though I was used to the hospital stench of cleaning products and sickness, it was anything but pleasant.

The constant drone of the beeping monitors filled the silence. I barely noticed them. I walked towards the pale blue curtain that separated the patient from the rest of the room.

I was already thinking of possible line items to include in the patient’s service plan. I was in social work mode. I plastered a professional smile on my face and griped the curtain in my hand, giving it a hearty yank. The body on the bed didn’t move. Not a twitch or a muscle spasm. I let the smile drop now that it seemed unnecessary.

I focused first on his feet. I slowly made my way up the length of his obviously thin body. His hands rested on either side of him and were all skin and bones. Long, knobby fingers. Knuckles raw and scabbed over. He appeared almost emaciated. Finally my eyes settled on a very battered and swollen face.

Jill hadn’t been lying. The man was hardly recognizable as a person. His mouth was puffy and split. His right cheek was black, blue and yellow from the marrow bruising, and his head was covered in stark white bandages.

His eyes were of course closed, but I got the impression of long, thick lashes on abused skin.

How would the police ever be able to identify him looking as he did? No one would be able to tell who he was. He barely looked human.

“You poor man,” I murmured, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed and sitting down.

I stared long and hard at his beaten face. “What happened to you?” I whispered knowing he wouldn’t answer me.

I lifted my pen and started to fill out the social work assessment sheet that I had brought with me. Until he woke up, I wouldn’t be able to do much for him. I needed his history. His story.

I needed his name.

He had been found underneath Seventh Street Bridge.

My throat felt uncomfortably tight and my hands trembled so badly it made holding the pen almost impossible.

Seventh Street Bridge…

Would time ever erase the impact of those memories?

It was all too easy to let my mind wander to the boy I had met under that bridge years ago. When the sky was red and tears dried on my cheeks.

The boy with black hair and wild, green eyes.

**

“I won’t leave you, Imi, not ever. You and me, we’re a definite. I don’t have anything if I don’t have you. You have to believe that.”

**

I had believed him with every piece of my trusting teenage heart.

But he had left me. And it had been for the best.

At least that’s what I had spent a long time trying to convince myself. Even if in my heart it felt like a lie.

I pressed my palms against my legs, forcing the tremors to stop. Deep breaths. Calm and cool. Remembering him elicited strong physical reactions.

Every single time.

“Let’s find out a little more about you,” I said under my breath, turning my attention back to the unidentified man in front of me.

I leaned in closer, trying to find any discernable feature that would help in identifying him. A birthmark. A scar.

A tattoo.

The color red caught my eye. On the side of his neck. Just below the hairline.

My heart tripped over itself in my chest. I felt sick. So sick.

Don’t be silly, Imogen. A thousand people must have red tattoos on the side of their neck. I’m sure it’s nothing unique. Nothing special.

So why was I close to freaking out?

I glanced behind me to make sure that I was still alone before I carefully pulled the hospital gown aside, exposing slightly jaundiced skin. When I saw the crude drawing on his neck I had to grip the side of the bed for support.

“It can’t be,” I whispered.

**

I touched the red tattoo on his neck and smiled.

Wild green eyes. He sucked me under and he held me there. He kissed me harder, branding me his. “You’re my happy life, Imi.”

I was cold. I was hungry. I hadn’t changed my clothes in months and I couldn’t remember the last time I had slept all the way through the night, but that didn’t matter.

“I love you, Yossarian Frazier.” He smiled.

Yossarian. My Yoss.

My happy life.

**

“Yoss.” His name was razorblades on my tongue. In my mouth.

He didn’t answer. His eyes remained closed.

I hadn’t recognized him underneath the bandages. Beneath the bruises.

Yet the red man on his neck gave him away.

“Yoss,” I sobbed.

My Yoss…

He had been my happy life. Even when things were ugly.

Later he became my broken heart.

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