I wake up in a strange house in nothing but my underwear. So far a not entirely extraordinary morning, except for the mother of all hangovers. I feel my head-not my hair though. The hair is gone-like all gone. Did I shave it? Done stranger things on dares. I run my hand over the smooth skin, and it feels nice, until I touch the bandage over my ear. Damn, that hurts! Probably hit it on a doorway or something. Always used to happen when I was coming down from Jet. I'd get the lash, this sound like a whip crack in my head, my vision shattering. Then I'd hit a door, the floor, a wall, a burned out truck, whatever was there.

My head's clearing quick, all things considered. Coffee brewing-a good start. Some old arcade game in the corner keeps flashing. Who the hell keeps a love tester running in an energy crisis? I find out when an old man comes down the hall-oh dear, not my taste at all usually, but I suppose he has a house and is carrying two mugs of coffee this way.

"Good, you're up," he says, setting a Poseidon Energy mug on the surgical table beside the cot. It strikes me, seeing the instruments on the table, that this situation could get real weird real fast. I don't have my gun near me, but I'm pretty sure I could get that scalpel if I have to.

"Sorry," he says, "should probably introduce myself. Name's Doc Mitchell."

Could explain the surgical instruments, I suppose, but you can call yourself anything these days. Pull a uniform out of a rusty footlocker, and suddenly you're a soldier.

"Michael," I say. I look at the cup of coffee but don't reach for it. I'm starting to doubt if I can really take this guy if it came to it, especially if there's any sedative in that mug. "What-what happened last night?"

Doc Mitchell leans back, sips his coffee. "Well, last night...last night you slept."

Funny. "Before that, what happened?"

"Like I said, you slept. That's what you've been doing the past three nights-and days, for that matter."

"Wait, I've been out three days? Shit, I know I'm fired now." I've been working here and there as a courier for Mojave Express. It's generally a pretty crappy gig unless you can fall in with a convivial caravan on its way to Vegas. Otherwise you have to make your own eating and sleeping arrangements. This one time I slept in an old refrigerator just off the road. Had to schlep a skeleton out of it, but shelter's shelter.

"Well, you got shot. Three days is a pretty good turnaround, but then you did have me looking out for you."

"Is that why the-" I pointed at the bandage. He nodded. "Wow, all right. Thanks. What do I owe you?"

"You're welcome, and don't worry about it. I'll bill Mojave Express." At my stunned look, he chuckles. "Just kidding, but it's covered all the same."

"Thanks," I say again. "So, where are we? This Primm?"

"Oh no, no. Goodsprings."

"People get shot in Goodsprings?" I pick up the coffee. "Thought it was a quiet town."

"Well, you did, and it was quiet till the Powder Gangers took over the NCR prison-and then those Khans and the guy in the suit showed up. Guess they were looking for you, because they were out of town at the gunshot. Victor found you and brought you here."

"Victor? Is he here?"

"He should still be around. He's been rolling up and down Main Street since you've been here."

My hands are little shaky still, and a drop of hot coffee runs down the side of the mug onto my leg. I'm suddenly aware that he hasn't offered me any clothes for this little chat.

"Hey, do you have my stuff? Clothes, gear?"

"Isn't much there, sorry to say. Victor brought you here in your bloody clothes. Head wounds bleed like crazy, you know, even if they're not fatal. I've got them on the line outside. Also got some old jumpsuits in the closet if you want something without any stains on it."

Shit, there goes my food, meds, weapons, and-worst of all-the package I was supposed to deliver. Primm is a long walk from here-hell of a long way to go just to get chewed out for screwing up a delivery. Being a courier is a dangerous job: no one cares that you got robbed or stabbed or even shot. You screw up, and that's on you.

"What do I," I say quietly, overwhelmed by the magnitude of my failure, "you know, what do I do?"

"You can thank Victor, for a start. Then, I guess you could talk to Sunny at the Prospector. Sunny Smiles. Usually has all sorts of paying work. Course, you can stay here until you figure out where you're going. You're my only patient, and there's plenty of room."

I finish the coffee and stand up from the cot. My legs buckle, but I get them under me and walk to the closet with the jumpsuits. I figured they were mechanics' outfits, but they're actual vault jumpsuits. Not knockoffs: genuine Vault-Tec issue. I take one, making a note to take the other two before I go. Can always find a buyer for a mint condition vault suit. The fabric is strong, stain- and tear-resistant.

I dress quickly in the hall. "Hey," I say, zipping up the suit, "what does Victor look like?"

"Oh, you can't miss him," Doc Mitchell calls back. "He's the only securitron in town."