Jack was released from the small town hospital after three days of consciousness. The doctors, nurses, and orderlies, all of whom had helped him in some way or another, were pleasantly shocked and surprised by his very speedy recovery. After all, less than a week ago he was near death, a mass of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, with very little brain activity. Now he was a vibrant, tall young man who was absolutely brimming with life.
Yes, all of them were amazed that he'd made a full recovery. That is, all of them except for nurse Paula Brody. For some strange reason, she seemed to know all the time that he'd be fine, almost as if she had such strong faith in her nursing ability that she could raise the dead.
But Jack dismissed Paula's matter-of-fact view of his recovery. "She's just an optimistic person,"he thought as he walked out the automatic doors of the hospital.
He heard behind him several voices, each saying "goodbye" in their own way. He stopped and turned back, waving at the group of loving people who had worked so hard to rebuild his life. He smiled at them all, temporarily looking into the eyes of each new friend.
Jack's eyes fell upon Paula. She didn't wave to him, and barely held any expression on her face. She just stood watching him, arms crossed, the corners of her mouth lifted in a small smile. She had a strange look in her eyes that Jack couldn't help but see as slightly familiar, like he had known her long ago and he just realized it. But, Jack had no recollection of knowing her previously to his stay in the hospital. He waved to her and smiled, turned, and set off down the road to the sheriff's office, where his truck was being held for him.
The air was rather cool and wet, and the sweatshirt that the hospital staff had supplied for him barely kept the weather at bay. It was much too large for him and it was very drafty. The pants they had given him were also rather large on him, but they fit much better than the shirt. He smiled faintly and sighed as he thought of the generosity of the people at the hospital.
Jack chuckled as he realized that the only articles of clothing he wore that fit him properly were his belt, which kept his pants from falling to his ankles, and his boots. He had worn them during the wreck and they were the only pieces of clothing he wore that had survived. The rest of his outfit from that horrible day had been shredded from the impact of his body hitting a tree, and soaked in his blood.
Presently, a cold wind blew, and Jack's "new" sweatshirt inflated, the chilly air somehow making its way inside. Jack shivered. Normally, he liked cool weather, but he was still recovering from his near-death experience and he had some trouble acclimating to the Wyoming winds. He stopped in his tracks, closed his eyes, and seemed to growl as he concentrated on adjusting to the temperature. He could feel his body change beneath his shirt and pants, warming slowly. This was no natural adjustment; he was using his mutation, something he avoided unless absolutely necessary.
When his body had adjusted to his liking, Jack opened his eyes and looked up at a street sign before him. "Sixth and Main," he said quietly. He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, on which Paula had written directions to the sheriff's office. He read it and looked back up at the sign, and then looked both ways down the street before him. Something instinctual told him to go left, so he did.
A few minutes later, he was standing outside of his destination, a rather small brick building that stood directly west of the town hall. A half a dozen old black and white Jeeps and a few Crown Victorias were parked on the street here. He knew without a doubt that this was the place.
He went inside and approached a small reception desk in a fifteen by ten-foot lobby. The officer sitting behind the desk, an older man with graying hair, looked up at the stranger and asked, "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes, please," he said in a common politeness he often found himself using. "I'm Jack McGregor. I was told I could pick up my truck here."
The officer stared at him for a moment, quietly questioning the validity of the statement, as well as the worth of the young man before him. "Certainly," he mumbled.
Jack stood politely and waited as the officer picked up the receiver of the phone on the desk and punched a red button.
"Sir," the deputy grunted in a gruff tone, "there's a guy here named, uh, McGregor. Jack McGregor. Says he's here to pick up his truck." The person on the other end of the conversation said something. "Oh, yeah," the stern old man grunted. He looked down at the desk for some time, then muttered, "Yes, sir," into the phone. A second later, he hung up the telephone and looked again at Jack.
Jack felt somewhat uneasy. He was used to dealing with people like this one, those who were curt and suspicious of him, but that didn't mean he had to like it. For some reason he wanted to hit the man across his wide forehead, but instead he just stood quietly, looking the deputy in the eye.
"So, you're the guy who got in the wreck outside of town, eh? You had the whole town scared. We all prayed for ya." The officer reached out a hand, which Jack immediately grabbed and shook. "I'm Deputy Schultz. Sorry about treatin' ya like the cow crap stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I'm just a little suspicious of strangers sometimes."
Jack could tell that the deputy was being less than sincere in his welcome, but he took what little bit of politeness he could get. "Thank you, sir," he said.
"Well, son, I got some bad news for ya." He stood and started to walk down a short hallway to his left, Jack's right. "Your truck isn't here."
Jack's body turned hot with a mixed feeling of dread and anger, but he quickly dismissed it, and began following Schultz down the hall as he motioned for him to do so.
"You don't say much, do you?"
"No, sir. Not usually."
"Well, it doesn't matter." Schultz opened an office door at the end of the hallway. "Go on in," he said. "The Sheriff wants to talk to ya."
Jack obeyed and entered the office. Schultz followed him in, and the Sheriff motioned for both of them to sit.
"Hello, Mister McGregor. I'm Sheriff Brown," said the man behind the desk. He was a couple decades older than Jack, but still many years younger than Deputy Schultz. "My brother, who's the Mayor around here, and I have decided that we'd pay for the repairs to your truck. Now, we weren't expecting you to be released from the hospital for a few more days, so the boys down at the shop aren't quite done with her yet."
Jack sat quietly. He didn't know what to say, and again his feelings were mixed. He felt that these total strangers didn't really need to do these good deeds for him, but also felt grateful that they were willing to help him. He decided to do the polite thing and accept the gift, and nodded his head. "Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome, son," said the sheriff. "Now, until your truck is ready to go, we'll put you up at the inn down the street, if that's fine with you."
Jack nodded his head again.
"Good," smiled Brown. He sat still in his chair, closely examining Jack for some time. Finally, he leaned forward and said in a soft tone, "You know, you're a lucky young man. People around here are saying that your recovery is some kind of sign. They're saying you must be a good person, or you'd wind up in a box, like that Henry Lee fella."
Jack was still silent. He knew that Henry Lee, a fellow accident victim, had died this morning. Even though Lee was a murderer and a thief, Jack still felt somewhat guilty that his recovery was miraculous and Lee's was nonexistent.
"Now, I don't know if those people are right," Brown said. "I don't know if you're a good guy. I don't know if you're a bad guy. All I know is...you'd better not let these people down. If you have any bad intentions, then you'd better leave now." He looked at Schultz, then back at Jack. "Otherwise, we'd be happy to have you in our town."
"Believe me, sir," Jack said, "I'm not here to make any trouble. I don't want to hurt anybody, or steal from anyone. I was just passing through when...whatever that 'attack' was knocked me for a loop."
Sheriff Brown smiled. "Good," he said. "That's just great to hear. Now, do you have any questions or special requests?"
Jack thought for a little while, and then asked, "Well, if it's not too much trouble, would I be able to get some things out of my truck?"
"Sure. Deputy Schultz here will drive you down to the shop."
When Jack and Deputy Schultz arrived at the mechanic shop minutes later, Jack saw a familiar black truck looking back at him through the open garage door. It stood over the shop's oil change pit, and three men were hard at work trying to restore it to perfect condition.
One of the mechanics, his head poking up out of the pit, looked toward the direction of the two approaching men. He grabbed a rag to clean his oil-covered hands, and climbed the stairs leading up into the shop's upper bay.
"Hello, Floyd," Schultz said.
"Hey, Bob. Who's this with ya?"
The deputy looked at Jack and answered, "This is the owner of the truck you're workin' on. Name's Jack McGregor."
The mechanic, whose face was dirty and unshaven, reached toward Jack and smiled. "Pleased to meet ya, Jack. That's a real nice machine you got there. Sorry we haven't finished workin' on 'er yet."
Without hesitation, Jack shook the friendly stranger's oil-covered hand and replied, "It's no problem. The Mayor and Sheriff have allowed me to stay in the inn until you're finished."
"Well," Schultz said, "we're here because Jack needs to get some things."
"Yeah? Well, I'll be happy to get them for ya. What do you need?"
"Just a suitcase in the cab, if it's still there."
Floyd climbed inside the vehicle. "Yeah, it's still in here," he said. "It's dumped, though. Can't be sure everything's here."
"That's OK," Jack replied.
After gathering up all of the items that he could find, Floyd closed the suitcase and exited the vehicle's cab. Climbing down, he pointed at the tall fiberglass camper shell covering the pickup's bed.
"That shell wound up with a pretty big crack in it," the mechanic stated. "Did my best to repair it, but I don't know how well it'll hold."
Jack chuckled. "Oh, I'm not too worried about that. How's theā¦cargo in the back?"
"Oh, just fine," Floyd answered. "You sure know how to secure somethin' like that."
Deputy Schultz was growing impatient. "Well, Floyd, if it's OK with you, Jack and I gotta go. I have a lot of work to do back at the station, and I'm sure he's pretty tired." Waiting for a response from neither Floyd nor Jack, he headed toward his black and white truck, and then climbed inside.
Jack waved to the friendly mechanic and followed the deputy. The two quickly sped off toward the inn.
Jack lay on the bed, half asleep. He'd been here in his motel room for nearly an hour, staring blankly at the television set on the dresser opposite the bed. He thought of how Deputy Schultz had impatiently waited as he checked into the inn, and then carried his luggage upstairs for him. Without waiting for any kind of "Thank you," the deputy closed the door, went downstairs, and left. Needless to say, Jack didn't like him much.
Jack then thought of the phone conversation he had overheard between Schultz and Brown. He didn't mean to eavesdrop. He could just hear it. Sometimes he couldn't control his extraordinary senses.
"This is Brown," he heard in a muffled voice.
"Sir, there's a guy here named, uh, McGregor. Jack McGregor. Says he's here to pick up his truck."
"Ah, the kid who lost it on the highway."
"Oh, yeah."
"Now, Jimmy, don't scare the little interloper. Try to be nice to him, just like I'm gonna be. We want the vagrant outta here ASAP, but we don't want the poor kid to think he's headed for a lynch mob. And, you never know. He could be one of those damn mutants. The last thing we need is to make him mad and have him kill half the town. Got that?"
"Yes, sir."
Jack felt downhearted, angry, hated. He didn't belong here. As just some guy passing through, he was despised. If they knew he was a mutant, he'd not just be despised, but hated and feared. Here, he could exist as neither a mutant nor a normal human being. He let out a long growl, and tears filled his eyes as he slowly drifted to sleep.
