A Familiar Stranger

"I'm not staying."

Clara said it to the tattooed man because the stranger had already disappeared behind a curtain.

"Nobody asked you to stay all night," he said.

He took her wet coat before she could decide whether to resist and hung it on a radiator that wasn't warm.

The clinic smelled of disinfectant, old paper, and something herbal. A single fluorescent light hummed above a row of plastic chairs. Beyond the curtain, metal struck metal.

"No anesthetic?" the stranger asked.

"Not enough for what you need."

"What about the stuff you used last time?"

"That was for a dog."

Silence.

"You could have mentioned that last time."

Clara looked at the closed door.

The tattooed man stood between her and it, speaking quietly into his phone.

"How much longer?" she asked.

He held up one finger.

She hated him a little too.

Behind the curtain, the stranger made a low, involuntary sound. Clara's hand went to her own stomach.

The doctor said, "Try to keep still."

"Try to be quicker."

"You want it done well or done quickly?"

"At your age, I'm grateful it's getting done at all."

The doctor snorted.

Clara sat because her knees had begun to tremble. Water dripped from her hair onto her blouse. Her shoes were soaked through, and every breath seemed to scratch the back of her throat.

She tried Julian's number.

No service.

Of course.

The curtain opened. The doctor came out carrying a tray and gave her a brief, assessing look.

"You're soaked."

"I noticed."

"You'll want to do something about that."

"I'd like to go home."

"Tell him."

He nodded toward the examination bed and went to wash his hands.

The stranger lay with his shirt open and a white dressing taped low on his right side. His skin was darker than she had thought, his chest and stomach cut with the kind of muscle that didn't come from sitting at a desk.

He had an arm over his eyes.

Clara stopped beside the bed.

"Tell your friends to let me leave."

He lowered his arm.

"You're still here?"

"Yes. That's the problem."

He looked past her. "Vince."

The tattooed man appeared.

"Get her something dry."

"I don't need clothes. I need my car."

"Your car's being cleaned."

Clara stared at him.

"You had no right."

"To clean it?"

"To make decisions about my things."

He considered her, then tipped his head against the pillow.

"Fair enough. What would you have charged me?"

"For what?"

"Bleeding on the upholstery."

"A fortune."

"Be specific."

She was too tired for him.

"Ten thousand dollars for saving you. Another ten for keeping my mouth shut."

Vince made a strangled noise.

The man on the bed smiled.

"That's all?"

"I'm willing to renegotiate."

"I'll bet you are."

He reached for her wrist. She pulled back, but he caught her gently enough that the gentleness irritated her more.

His hand was hot now.

"Let go."

"You're shaking."

"I'm angry."

"You can be both."

She looked at the dressing. A red spot had appeared along one edge.

"You're bleeding again."

"You've got a real eye for it."

"Does it hurt?"

The question escaped before she could stop it.

His smile changed.

"Worried about me?"

"I'm worried you'll die and the police will find your blood in my car."

"Practical girl."

"Somebody has to be."

She tried to pull free. The room tilted.

For an instant she thought he had tugged her, but his hand had gone loose. The light above him stretched into a white line. Her wet blouse felt suddenly much too tight across her shoulders.

"Hey."

She heard his voice from very far away.

"Sit down."

"I'm fine."

He sat up so quickly his breath caught. She saw that, absurdly, before she saw the floor coming toward her.

Then his arm was around her.

***

"Wake her up," Vince said. "She can put these on herself."

Damian looked at him.

Vince stopped holding out the folded clothes.

"Or not."

"Get Walter back in here."

The girl had gone limp against Damian's chest. Her cheek was burning. He moved carefully off the bed, holding her until Vince stripped the wet sheet away and put down a clean one.

Walter took her temperature and swore under his breath.

"Fever. Exhaustion. Probably started before tonight. How long was she in the rain?"

"Long enough to get me into a car."

Walter looked up at him.

Damian held his gaze.

"Get the nurse from upstairs," the doctor said. "And give us some privacy."

Damian stepped behind the curtain with Vince.

His side hurt. His trousers were wet. Somewhere, several men were waiting for him to decide whether their evening was about to become much worse.

"We found two of them," Vince said quietly.

Damian took the offered cigarette but didn't light it.

A small cough came from the other side of the curtain.

He looked at the pale rectangle of light beneath it.

"Hand them over."

Vince blinked.

"Both of them?"

"You heard me."

"And the money?"

Damian raised his eyes.

"Use your head. We've got people to pay."

Vince nodded, relieved to understand at least part of the conversation.

"Want me to find out who she is?"

"No."

"Boss—"

"She stopped for a stranger in the rain. Leave her alone."

On the other side of the curtain, the nurse asked for another blanket.

Damian looked down at the pink fleece folded over a chair. One corner had a tiny embroidered strawberry on it. The rest was ruined.

He put the cigarette back in its packet.

***

Clara woke to the sound of a truck passing outside.

Dawn showed gray beneath the front blind.

She sat up, and a blanket slid to her waist. Her blouse was gone. So were her trousers. She was wearing an unfamiliar oversized T-shirt over her underwear.

For several seconds she couldn't breathe.

On the chair beside the bed lay her own clothes, washed but still damp. A paper bag held her shoes. Her handbag sat beneath it, zipped closed.

There was nobody behind the curtain.

Nobody in the waiting room.

She dressed with numb fingers, found her keys in her bag, and left.

Her car stood outside. The seats were dry. There was no blood, no mud, no sign that anybody had nearly died in the back.

A square fever patch clung to her forehead.

She pulled it off and stared at it.

Then she drove home.

Shelby found her asleep under two blankets and shook her awake because she was going to miss her first morning at work.

"When did you get back?"

"Late."

"Clara, you're burning up."

"I know."

She went anyway. She handed in her temporary paperwork, met three supervisors whose names immediately escaped her, and lasted forty minutes before one of them drove her to urgent care.

For the next month, her new coworkers called her the delicate one and put spare sweaters over the back of her chair.

Nobody asked about the stranger.

Clara did her best not to remember him.

Then October came, and Aunt Lorraine announced that Julian was finally coming to discuss the wedding.

The Grand Briar had reopened under new ownership. Lorraine booked its largest private dining room and invited enough relatives to fill it.

Clara wore a pale rose dress and the small pearl earrings her mother had left her.

Julian came alone.

Halfway through the first course, Shelby opened the door.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, smiling in a way Clara rarely saw. "My employer wanted to say hello."

A tall man followed her inside.

White shirt. Silver tie. Rimless glasses.

His hair was neatly combed, his jacket fitted across an exceptionally broad pair of shoulders.

He looked respectable.

Then he turned his head.

His eyes found Clara across the table, and every hair on her arms rose.