Page 23 of The Damage Man

Working in silent tandem, they start to screw the lug nuts back into place.

Evan turns the engine over and drives away.

The afternoon is dry and autumnal when Evan steps out of the rented Jeep into the swelter of the Blessing, Texas, parking lot. He reaches the front of the hospice-care home and hesitates at the edge of the pressure mat.

Too late—he’s triggered the automatic door sensor. The glass rectangles part, exhaling the sickly scent of past-their-prime flowers.

He eases back a step and the doors shudder closed again.

What the hell is he doing? He has asked himself this nearly every minute of the three-hour flight to Houston and the hour-and-a-half drive to Blessing.

And still doesn’t have a good answer.

An image floats into his head unbidden, Rusty and Blake kneeling side by side near the tire, working in harmony.

Deep breath. Four-count hold. Exhale.

Evan takes a tentative step forward.

The doors slide open in response.

Something catches in his throat and he reverses again.

He mashes his closed eyes in circles with the heels of his hands, the sensation more pleasing than painful—though not by much.

“Maybe I can help, hon?”

A woman in her seventies is emerging from the lobby to claim him, a spill of air-conditioning conveyed with her movement. Thin arms protrude from her teal scrubs, bones pronounced at her elbows. A volunteer name tag identifies her as GWENDOLYN.

She gives him a searching look. Her hair, the color of fresh snow, falls in wisps about her walnut skin. “Hard to come and see loved ones.”

Evan says, “Right.”

She reaches for his arm, her fingers slender, skeletal. The touch at his biceps is as light as a bird nest. He wonders if she, too, is chronically ill. It seems she might be volunteering here to gird herself for what is coming.

He allows her to guide him inside.

The place looks empty, understaffed. The sole nurse manning the central station is arguing about a late prescription with someone over the phone.

“Who you here to see?” Gwendolyn asks.

“My…” His throat is dry. He clears it. “Jacob Baridon.”

“Oh, Mr. Jacob. He’s a card.” A knowing wink. “The joker, maybe.”

Evan sees how desperately she wants him to smile, but he cannot. He is staring up the vivid white corridor at the row of closed doors.

“You’re a relative?”

Evan says, “Kind of.”

They are coasting up the hall, past reception. Gwendolyn leads him, his arm in hers. She is so light her footsteps make no sound. “You got here just in time.” She gives his arm an encouraging little shake. “You should know, hon, he’s right at the end.”

They reach room 12, Jacob’s name scrawled on a whiteboard in Magic Marker along with a schedule of nurse visits initialed by different hands.

Evan balks.

That’s the only word for it. He’s halted so abruptly that Gwendolyn slides from his arm. She stands in front of the closed door, examining him.