Borderline [On hold for major revision]

Chapter 21

Just in case I missed a couple chapters in the replacement, the detective dude's last name changed to Walton.

Chapter 21

Despite my assurances that whoever was knocking on the door was there to help, Hector insisted on answering it shotgun drawn. I rolled my eyes and leaned against the back wall of the old shack, thereby distancing myself from any carnage that might ensue.

            I couldn’t see who was at the door from where I was standing, but it was clear almost immediately that I was right. A couple seconds after Hector opened the door, he lowered the gun and stepped outside for a brief conversation with whoever was there. Less than a minute later he came back inside and shut the door.

            “Who was that?” I asked.

            “A courier. He says that they will provide food for you while you are staying here and anything else you may need.”

            “That’s not necessary.”

            “He says that he and his family will be happy to do for you what you have been doing for his fellow men for much longer. He says that a few months’ worth of food is nothing compared to the lives of his friends.”

            For a moment that warmed my heart more than anything else could have under the circumstances, but then I noticed the last part of what he said and my growing smile vanished. “A couple months? You’re nuts if you expect me to stay here more than a few days.”

            “Señor, you must rest and heal. If not in my hometown, then right here. I do not think you have slowed down to realize how beat-up you look.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Your arms are a mixture of black and yellow, and one has a long scab. You have a very ugly bruise on your jaw and your head is bleeding this very moment.”

            “What?” I reached a hand up and touched the area where Ryan had accidentally hit me with the baseball bat. My head erupted in pain with the touch, and sure enough my fingers came away red. “Huh. That can’t be good.”

            “No, which is why you must stay here and get better. I say a month at least.”

            “Three days at most.”

            “Three weeks.”

            “One week.”

            “Two.”

            I hesitated. “Fine, two weeks. Then I get to go out into the world and try to find out what the heck is going on.”

            “Deal. I must go, but I will be back later. If you need anything, use the phone to call either me or Ricardo, the courier. His number will be programmed in.”

            That reminded me: “Why is Rogers’ number in the contacts list?”

            “He thinks he may know something helpful. He said he will visit you soon. Goodbye! I will come back soon too.” He waved, pulled Leña out of the house, and left. A few seconds later I heard him riding off in the direction of his own home.

            I went to the “kitchen”—if it could truly be called that—and got a wet paper towel to try and stop the bleeding. The nurses didn’t tell me what to do if such a thing happened—or if they did then I wasn’t paying attention—so I wasn’t sure if that was the right treatment or not. But it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. After all, I was only going to be spending the next two weeks in a tiny house not fourteen feet square in the middle of the desert with nothing to do.