"How many nights?"

"Five."

"Can I see your credit card?"

"Your tawdry orange sign said I could pay with cash." Three hundred dollar bills were fanned out on the counter.

The middle-aged balding receptionist bit his cheek and then cleared his throat. He positioned his fingers, which were covered with potato chip crumbs, over the keys of an ancient computer. "Can I get a name, Sir?"

"Ignacio Hernandez." The visitor slowly pulled out a laminated identification card with his spidery thumb and index finger. The man in the photograph had a thick beard, and it was difficult to discern his features.

The receptionist blinked, likely taking notice of his guest's pale, bony hands. Only a dirty lamp lit the room, which meant it was impossible to tell that the visitor's entire face was also covered in a flesh-colored mask. Only a pair of yellow eyes shone beneath a black hat. With an aggravated sigh, the receptionist glanced at the card, swiped the cash off the counter, and turned back to his computer. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Hernandez."

"I will." The guest started to leave and then paused. "Oh. And I do not want housekeeping services. I am…particular when it comes to others touching my possessions."

The receptionist snorted. "We don't have housekeeping services until after people leave, dude."

"Of course not." The guest left the lobby and exited into the warm, dry evening air, feeling a certain amount of contentment in being back in his home country. The little inn, despite beginning to fall apart, even possessed a certain amount of charm. It probably had cockroaches, too. Ah well. He would not be there long.

He always felt the need to keep moving forward, never having remained in one place for more than a year or two in his entire life.

And it was that foul trait that kept him from actually getting anywhere.

After quickly glancing at the dusty landscape that was dotted with abandoned metal warehouses, he returned to an inconspicuous black car parked at the farthest corner of the lot. He clicked open the trunk to see a lean bundle draped in a white sheet and a brown leather suitcase. Pulling only the suitcase out, he headed for his second-floor room at the back of the building.

Once he had unlocked the door and entered, he placed the suitcase on the floor and unlatched the metal clasps. He yanked out a few dress shirts, flannel shirts, jeans, and trousers to hang in the cramped, dusty closet. Next, he laid out a blue toothbrush and tube of toothpaste beside the bathroom sink. After ruffling the stained bedspread and skewing the pillows, he tossed a wallet onto the table. He stood back and admired his work before adding a few more signs of life.

The alarm clock said it was just past seven. He stayed in the room for an hour or so afterwards, planning his travels and not wanting to arouse suspicions by repeatedly exiting and entering. Finally, he stood and stretched his wiry muscles, feeling the need to keep moving. A little red cockroach scuttled around his shoe; he knocked a stale cracker crumb off the table so the creature could have a proper dinner.

He returned to the car and opened the trunk again, the warm wind creeping through the holes in his mask and the dust making his eyes itch. Ignoring the faint stench, he lifted out the object wrapped in the sheet and crept toward one of the warehouses. The corpse would be close enough for the authorities to find—but not near enough for them to find too quickly, thereby making it difficult for them to form any type of timeline.

After easily breaking through a rusted lock and entering the dark triangular structure, he lowered the body onto the floor and yanked off the sheet. Rubbing a bony knuckle beneath his chin, he studied his work for possible errors. He'd already removed the eyeballs; that would be the main giveaway. The head wound was completely dry.

"You have been an excellent travelling companion," he softly informed the corpse. "I grow lonely from time to time, and you were good to listen to my troubles."

He'd recently borrowed the body from some gentlemen in another town who were quite eager to get it off their hands. Therefore, he was not sure of the exact time of death, and the eventual autopsy might slightly knock his plans off course. Of course, if the crime were ever accurately traced, it would go back to those gentlemen. Ideally, complete confusion would ensue as to the identification of the man-confusion that would eventually reach Mexico in the form of gossip and rumors.

"Goodnight," he told the corpse with a tip of his rimmed black hat before departing.

And, with that, Ignacio 'El Fantasma' Hernandez was possibly dead.

It was the name he had often used while swimming through some of the chaos in Mexico over the last year. Thousands had died. He'd survived because he never sided with a particular cartel, simply hopping from job to job, not caring who he was working for so long as he was being properly compensated. In an environment with little order and constant betrayal, the setting worked out quite well for him. Compared to the loud and messy assault rifles and hand grenades, his methods were much quieter-and appreciated in certain circumstances. Very few individuals actually saw him, and so no one could identify him.

Still, in the end, he'd needed to leave for a variety of reasons. For one thing, he was growing tired of the physical requirements and beginning to yearn for more intellectual work. For another, some of the top men in the cartels had become rather angry at him. One was intent on gouging Ignacio's infamous golden eyes right out of his sockets and sending them to his enemies as a warning.

It was simply…time to move on. And that was perfectly fine as far as he was concerned.

He needed to keep moving, to keep searching for something or nothing. He really did not understand why those men who had routine nine- to-five jobs did not simply hang themselves with their ridiculous neckties.

The dolts did have financial stability, though. A rush of anger swelled up inside him as he remembered what he had left behind. Over one hundred thousand dollars was sitting in an account south of the border, and some vile thief was probably going to get his disgusting hands on it. He'd been forced to leave the country too quickly to take action, and now part of his wealth was lost.

He wondered if there was a way to get back to it. Or if it would be simpler to spend the energy on a new lucrative 'project.'

So much to do and consider, so little time.

For now, though, he would take a brief vacation. He required time to reflect and plan his next step in life. The air became more humid as he drove through East Texas and toward Louisiana, and he could feel his mask begin to stick to his face. Desert and flatlands gave way to woodlands, making him feel less exposed.

When he finally felt secure, he paused for fuel and a rest. The gasoline pump had a machine that accepted cash, and so he was spared facing an attendant. The fewer people he saw, the better. His supply of stolen credit cards and cash cards were only for the most difficult situations.

After scouting the mid-sized town, he decided to visit a low class piano bar, choosing a table in a dark rear corner. It was moderately crowded with people who looked like they had nowhere else to be; no one took notice of him in the dim room. Sitting back in the chair with his ankles crossed and running a pepper shaker between his fingers, he listened to a fast ragtime piece.

No matter what instrument was playing or from what country of origin, music always briefly brought back a memory of Anne Giry. Years ago, she had once sat him in front of a piano and attempted to give him lessons. He'd quickly developed the ability to repeat any melody that he heard and even embellish upon it. Or he could alter it to a different style. For example, he could take a piece by Bach and mold it into something Scott Joplin would compose. Anne had labeled him a prodigy, clapping her hands together with a wide-eyed expression of delight. While with her, he had played often.

Although most of Anne's ideas for him were beyond laughable—doctor?! teacher?!—he sometimes regretted not pursuing the music. But his time with her had been somewhat short, and no one else ever had instruments. Music had passed out of his life long ago as many things had.

Ah well. He had other priorities now.

Listening to the piano in the bar, he could hear every mistake that the musician made, from hitting the wrong key to holding a note too long. It made him twitch. No one else seemed to notice. Or they were too intoxicated to care.

He was distracted as a young waitress with black hair curled beneath her chin approached him. He estimated that eighty percent of the time he was ignored in dining and drink establishments, either unnoticed or feared. It appeared that tonight would fall under the twenty percent.

"Something to drink?" She kept her distance, eyes warily watching him.

"No."

"Anything to eat?" One black high heeled shoe was placed behind the other in preparation to back way.

"No." He paused, annoyed at her predictable demeanor. "Your feigned French accent is rather atrocious, you know?"

"They make us talk this way," she whispered without the accent.

"And I am sure you do everything they tell you to do."

The girl pursed her lips, eyes briefly flashing in anger. "Well, some of us have to make a living." The fear returned, and she swallowed, perhaps regretting her words. Whirling around, she ran away from him.

He chuckled beneath the mask. There were two ways to make the fear go away. (Well…likely more than two but strangling them seemed excessive….) He could make them angry, or he could make them laugh. As he was in a foul mood over his lost funds, he'd chosen the former that night. But, on occasion, he could cause a woman to giggle.

Although he wasn't fond of people, he liked to make them laugh sometimes. He even had a bag of tricks. Well, there were also several weapons in there. But also cards and string…a couple of little wooden tops-odd items that he could use to entertain people in certain situations. On one occasion, he had stacked the tops on top of each other and spun them simultaneously. It created a little tornado with green, red, and yellow stripes.

Years ago—when he had been more impulsive and less wise—that simple trick had probably saved him from being taken out in the alley and shot in the back of the head.

"Let the butt-ugly kid go," the gruff Chicago boss had said. "I'll probably end up killing him someday. But he's more entertaining than most of the crap that walks in here."

Of course, he hadn't inched that close to death in over a decade. Still, he kept his bag-his little bag of life and death for emergencies. And for laughter.

Women had the nicest laughs, a much more pleasing timbre than that of a male.

Thoughts of females brought him back to Anne again.

Without reason, he felt the need to visit her every so often.

Oh, she could be extremely irritating. Sometimes she would complain about how he should have a legitimate career for so long that he wished to gag her. Listening to her lecture him about right and wrong was like listening to someone speak in an exotic foreign tongue. It annoyed him yet made him a bit giddy.

She would also touch him on the arm with two fingers or pat him on the shoulder; no one else ever did that. Anne Giry provided a delightful sensory overload that he could not really experience in any other way. And perhaps that was why he could not avoid her forever.

Thoughts of seeing her somewhat calmed him. He would visit her, and she would touch his arm, and then he could move onto his next endeavor.

It was time to go; he had to keep moving. So many possibilities. So little time.

And yet…too much time….

As she approached the hospital room, Christine immediately recognized the high-pitched voice of Raoul's mother, Theresa. There was some crying, followed by Raoul's reassurances that he was "okay." Then, for several minutes, there was inaudible conversation. Christine stood outside and hesitated, not wanting to intrude and wondering if she would learn more by eavesdropping.

"I just can't believe this," suddenly moaned Theresa. "Are you in pain? Should I get another nurse? Look at your face. You like you're in pain."

"She's making it worse." Christine jumped as Phillip spoke from behind her. He was holding a Styrofoam cup and wearing jeans and a black t-shirt. His eyes had darkened circles around them, and his cropped dark-blond hair was slightly ruffled. "Infantilizing him. She always does this."

"I guess she's worried," Christine murmured, not really knowing why she was defending Raoul's mother.

"Raoul is her favorite. This is going to hit her hard, and she's going to want to take control. She'll walk all over you, if you're not careful."

"Mm." Christine glanced down, not really surprised and not really sure how to respond.

Raoul's father was speaking now, his voice even and low. Christine never knew what to make out of Henry Chagny. He was a retired corporate lawyer, helping to organize some of the biggest mergers and acquisitions in the country. He was also so stoic that he made her uncomfortable. Raoul said he'd never been an affectionate man, but he was the kind of father who would always help with a homework problem or go on a trip to the museum.

"Yeah," she heard Raoul reply. "Whatever gets me out of here fast." He must have glimpsed her in the hall. "Christine? What are you doing out there?"

"Nothing," she replied, quickly stepping into the room. She went to his bedside and took his hand. They kissed. Both his parents stiffly nodded at her, and she nodded back. His mother's blue eyes still had tears, and it was one of the few times Christine had seen her without a perfectly-styled short perm. "How are you feeling?"

"Meh." He shrugged and gave her a pained smile.

Theresa dabbed her eyes and stepped back. "Well, we'll just take it one day at a time," she concluded. "That's all we can do."

"We'll learn all our options," his father added. "I don't care what the people here tell you. No one sign anything until we know all our options."

Christine was suddenly glad that Henry was there; she probably would have ended up signing the wrong thing. They silently and awkwardly stood around the bed. Raoul rubbed a hand over his face.

"Are you tired?" Theresa asked. "If you need to sleep, we can leave for a bit."

"Mom, I'm fine," he replied. "Let's try to stay calm."

"We do need to stay calm," Henry said. "But we also need to make plans."

"Yes, plans," agreed Theresa. "If what the doctors are telling us is accurate…." She tapered off and placed a hand on Raoul's shoulder. Her red manicured nails created a strange contrast with the blue hospital gown. Christine swallowed hard and watched as Raoul ground his upper teeth into his bottom lip.

"I don't think we need to make any quick decisions now," said Raoul.

"About what?" Christine asked.

"Treatments and rehabilitation," said Henry. He paused and then added, "Short-term living arrangements."

"Oh," she replied, still not quite grasping the tension. "Well, whatever is best for Raoul," she said, looking toward her husband. "That's what's important."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Theresa. Rubbing his temples, Raoul lowered his head back onto the pillow.

Christine was at a loss, unable to figure out who was siding with whom over what. She started to ask more questions, but Raoul suddenly twisted in the bed. "Ouch," he muttered, his face scrunching up and his fists curling into balls. "It feels like something's…cramping…burning."

"Where?" asked Christine bending down. She reached out a hand, hesitated on where to place it, and then rested it on his shoulder.

"Uh…." He gestured at himself with both hands. "Everywhere."

"Oh my God. I'll get a nurse," his mother said with new tears in her eyes, sandals clicking as she rushed out of the room.

"Hang in there," said Henry, his expression distant. "They'll give you more painkillers."

Christine stayed as his side as he squeezed his eyes shut. She moved when a nurse entered the room, backing up several steps with her hands slightly outstretched.

"We'll give him time to rest," said Theresa, heading for the door with Henry. "He shouldn't have this many people in the room at one time."

Christine nodded and followed as the ache returned to her stomach. Phillip was still lingering in the hallway looking haggard. She went to stand beside him, feeling as though her brother-in-law might be her closest ally. In the room, Raoul soon fell back into a comfortable sleep.

"Christine?"

She tensed and turned toward Theresa. "Yes?"

"Would you like to come downstairs and have a cup of coffee with me? Maybe we could both use an extra boost of energy. I didn't get a wink of sleep last night what with…."

Theresa's expression was blank, but the question made Christine nervous. Still, what could she say but, "Okay. That sounds good."

They silently rode the elevator together and followed the signs to the giant cafeteria. Theresa purchased coffee with two creamers. Christine requested three creamers and three packets of sugar. They found a circular table toward the back and sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs. Theresa took a sip of her coffee and made a face. "This is terrible."

Christine tasted hers and didn't find it much different than any other coffee. Only the condition of her husband made the flavor a little bitterer.

"Well, it'll do," muttered Theresa, taking another sip. They silently drank as others spoke in low voices around them, likely discussing their own difficult situations. Christine waited for her mother-in-law to continue, knowing this was not going to be a pleasant discussion between friends. "Well," she finally began with a sigh. "What a situation. I nearly passed out when I received the call. Right in the middle of an aquarium. Thank God he's alive. I don't know what I would have…." She closed her eyes.

"I know," Christine softly replied. "I couldn't believe it. I nearly still can't."

"His face lights up when you walk into that room."

"I'm glad…." She forced herself not to cry. "I'm glad I make him happy."

Theresa sighed and folded her hands together. "We're all going to have to make some hard decisions soon."

"I know. Whatever is best for him. I want him to be happy."

Theresa slightly frowned. "That's exactly what he said concerning you. He wants you to be happy. But someone here is going to have to be the adult and make the decisions. As you're not lying in bed with the prospect of never walking again, I'm asking you to do it."

Christine held out her open palms in bewilderment. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"You're right. You weren't there for the conversation, were you?" She rubbed the bridge of her nose as though irritated by this fact. "The next months are going to be especially difficult once he leaves the hospital and rehabilitation facility. There are a few options. You could hire someone to help you. Or…you both could live with us for some time. There's plenty of room. And plenty of help."

So this was it. Christine twisted her hands together, nearly knocking over her coffee in the process. She hadn't even thought this far ahead yet. "What does he want?" she asked.

"Like I said, he says he wants what you want. And I'm asking you to make a decision in his best interest."

"Well, of course I'll make it in his best interest," she nearly snapped. "I just want him to get better."

"We all do. But it is certainly not going to happen overnight. We'll be lucky if…." She tapered off.

Christine's hands fell into her lap. "I don't know," she murmured. "I haven't thought about it…. I…maybe for a little while, it'd be best if there was family close by when he first leaves. He'd like that better than some strange nurse, I think." Theresa's eyes lit up, and Christine had to keep from glaring at her. "But not forever," she quickly continued, dreading that idea. "As soon as we understand how bad the injury is going to be and how much rehabilitation he'll need, Raoul and I will be on our own again. We're going to be an independent couple, and I'm going to take on the responsibilities."

Theresa slowly nodded. "Of course I don't expect you to live with us forever. You'll keep your own home, and Henry and I will help with the mortgage."

Christine started to protest but stopped. What was she going to do? Pay all the bills with her measly accompanist position? She could give piano lessons as she had two years ago, but that still wouldn't bring in enough. The only thing that mattered now was Raoul's recovery.

"This is going to be a long and difficult path," Theresa continued. "You're the one person who really brings a smile to his face. And I hope you're willing to face the circumstances."

"I am. I'll face anything for him." Christine stared her mother-in-law straight in the eye.

Mrs. Chagny looked as though she was about to say something. Her lips closed, though, and she took another sip of coffee. She scrunched up her face and put the cup down. "I guess we should go up and see if he's doing okay. Are you ready?"

"Yes," Christine evenly replied, standing. "I'm ready."

After they silently stepped onto the elevator, Christine held the door open so another woman could board with them. "Thank you," she distractedly murmured. The woman was older, with her light brown and grey hair folded into a neat bun. In one hand, she was carrying a shopping bag full of stuffed animals and games. The nametag on her worn red sweater made Christine guess she was a volunteer, probably spending time with sick children. The woman and the name were also vaguely familiar, though.

Christine was nearly to Raoul's room when she finally remembered. Anne Giry. She'd looked so much older now and…. God, that had been years ago.

When Christine was about six-years-old, she'd desperately wanted to take ballet. They hadn't had much money, but her father had finally discovered Madame Giry's Little Butterflies, an inexpensive dance program for poorer children. Christine had only been in the class for about a year. She was clumsy and had hit her growth spurt at an early age, making her embarrassingly taller than the other girls. Although everyone else had caught up to her in height, she'd never become much of a dancer. Only Raoul could get her to agree to an occasional spin around the room.

Still, Mrs. Giry had always put her time and heart into every class, strict but enthusiastic. If Christine remembered right, Anne had quit teaching the program to have a baby girl. Another instructor, a lackluster one, had taken over the class. Christine had quit soon afterwards.

Her memories vanished the second she entered Raoul's room and saw him awake. She nearly ran over to him for a hug, ignoring Theresa on the other side of the bed. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better." His warms arms wrapped around her, and she buried her face into his shoulder. They stayed liked that for over a minute. "You changed shampoos," he said, obviously catching a whiff of her hair.

"Oh. Yeah. I just used what was at my dad's house."

"Oh. They're both nice."

"Thanks."

He sighed and then whispered, "It won't be like this forever."

"I know," she replied, embracing him even more tightly. "It's only going to get better from here."