His home was empty. Finally. The last week after his release had been a flood of visitors- hovering, talking, eating, joking. Concerned. Attentive. … Smothering. Overwhelming.

The constant babble had at first been comforting. It helped to ground him in reality. But lately, he'd had a bit too much reality. And the babble had become a dull roar in his ears, threatening to drown him out.

He'd sent his parents packing with a peck on the cheek for mom and a manly handshake for dad and promises to call often.

With a sigh and a wave as the taxi pulled away he shut the door and walked into his living room. He gathered up the get-well cards and stuffed animals that had seemed to propagate themselves and had covered every spare inch of his formerly neat abode and pulled a trash bag out from under the sink, stuffing it to the top. A white bear with a frown holding an umbrella that said "Sorry you're feeling under the weather" stared out from the top of the bag with little beady glass eyes. With a disgusted sound he pulled the bag closed and threw it into a corner in his kitchen, wincing at the pain that remained in his broken ribs.

He stared at his kitchen countertops, crowded with aluminum foiled casserole dishes and boxes of baked goods. Looks like there's been a goddamned wake here.

Throwing up his hands in defeat he walked back into the living room and began to throw himself down on the couch, slowing when his ribs protested.

He eased his head back and listened to the new silence. Someone was cutting their grass in the neighborhood. There was a fly on his picture window. Banging and buzzing against the glass. He got up and grabbed a magazine to swat the fly, then changed his mind and waved it back out the front door. He was about to shut the door when he saw a familiar truck pull in. Warrick. Bigger sigh. He just wasn't up to a visit. Especially from Warrick. The easy relationship they'd had had somehow become awkward and, to be frank, damned uncomfortable. He saw his friend coming up the walk and pasted a smile on his face and gave a wave of greeting.

He let him into the front room and took the chair, settling back for another marathon session of circuitous small talk and embarrassing pauses.

"Your folks gone?"

"Yup."

"You should've called. I'd have taken them over to McCarran for you."

" 'Sall right. They called a taxi."

"Ummm, so you have any beer?"

"You want a beer?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Sure."

"…Is there a game on?"

"Yeah. I think there's an NCAA game on four. You can turn it on if you want. I'll grab the beer."

As he looked in the fridge he glanced back at his friend digging around for the remote. Lifting couch cushions, and pushing aside piles of magazines. It made him smile, to see such a familiar sight.

He came back to the room and handed over a beer. "A Bud for my bud." Genuine smile.

"Oh, Man. Budweiser? What's with the ghetto beer? You always had the primo stuff before."

"Yeah, well, my mom bought it. Don't think she's up on her microbrews. Shut up and drink your swill."

Reaching to the top of the TV he grabbed the remote, which had been sitting there in plain view. "Looking for this?"

They turned the game on and quickly got caught up in the action and sports talk.

The game over, Nick shut the TV off, and for the first time in what seemed like forever he didn't feel the need to rush his guest out the door.

His new sense of happiness died quickly when it became apparent that Warrick wanted to Talk. He didn't want to Talk. He wanted to hang with his friend and be Normal Guy again. He mentally sighed, and realized he owed it to his friend to let him have his say.

Warrick began with platitudes about how brave Nick was and quickly deteriorated into babbling about how if he'd been in the box he never would have made it. Blah blah blah. Hate to break it to you…It wasn't you in the box, bud. It was me. Me. Wow. Angry much, Stokes?

"Nick?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out there for a second. I'm really beat, Bro. Don't have much stamina right now."

"Nightmares?"

Duh. "Not so much."

He saw his friend giving him a wooly eye and he quickly covered. "Didn't you hear, Rick? I found religion. I now worship at the altar of the little yellow pill. Ambien, Man. The penicillin for the mentally unbalanced insomniac." He laughed, but his words had a hollow ring. "I'm serious. One of those babies and I'm out like a light."

"Great. That's…great. I guess I should take off then, huh? Sure you don't want me to stick around? Your first night home alone and all that…"

"I told you. I don't like people around when I'm sleeping." He averted his eyes as he heard the anger that had crept into his voice. Cleared his throat. "I mean, c'mon, Man. Sleeping is for snoring, scratching, farting, and morning woodies. No one needs an audience for that." He attempted a laugh and looked to see if his friend was appeased. "Sorry, Rick. I've got a bit of cabin fever and I'm not my normal jolly self."

"Yeah. I guess you have been housebound for what…a week now? I'd be pretty cranky myself. Well, I'll let myself out. Check you later?"

"You bet."

The door closed and Nick sighed and rubbed his face with both hands.

Time to hit the hay.

Or not.

He turned the TV back on and flipped channels mindlessly.

--Set it, and Forget it!

--ferry carrying four hundred passengers sank today in-

--Bruce! You told me you had left Janet-

--it's Bryant! -and it's good for three-

--only if you need to lose ten pounds or more-

Click. Click. Click.