Arthur watched as a gust of wind carried a few red and orange leaves across his window, settling on the ledge with the ones that had already turned brown and died. Beyond the ledge was the hospital's garden, something that Ivan had monopolized and adorned with rows and rows of flowers, apparently as part of his treatment. Must have been therapeutic or something, Arthur guessed. At the very least it was pretty. And with any luck, a tiny bit distracting.

Arthur was still staring at the yellow flowers when there was a knock at the door. Arthur twisted around, heart in his throat, and said, "Oh, yes?"

The door opened, revealing a man that Arthur didn't recognize. Standing in the hall was a short, dark-skinned man with tight black curls and, if Arthur was not mistaken, eye makeup. "Good afternoon," said the man, his words heavily accented. "My name is Gupta Muhammad Hasan, or Dr. Hassan, if you will."

"Oh." Arthur tried not to sound disappointed. He shifted in his spot on the bed, cleared his throat, and said, "Is there something I can help you with?"

Without further pleasantries, Dr. Hassan glanced down at a clipboard and said, "Arthur Kirkland, twenty-eight years old, diagnosis, schizophrenia?"

Arthur blinked, dumbfounded at how easily he and his life could be summarized. He felt a little violated. "That would be correct," he said. Arthur looked away and scratched behind his ear. "How do you know that, exactly?"

"I apologize, I assume you were not expecting me," said Dr. Hassan. "Dr. Williams has a personal matter to attend to. I will be filling in the next few days."

In the months Arthur had been here, he couldn't remember the last time he had gone a day without seeing Matthew. No matter what time it was or what was going on, he could always count on Matthew being right around the corner, ready to deliver words of encouragement. He always seemed to sneak up on Arthur, but still, his infallible presence was comforting if only for the sake of consistency. But of course, Matthew was human. Arthur supposed it was silly to expect him to never take a day off.

"Oh, well, alright," he said.

Dr. Hassan nodded, then looked up from his notes and stared at Arthur. "Of course, since I have not been handling your case it would be inappropriate for me to console you," he said. "So, there will not be any sessions for a few days. I will simply be keeping on eye on things until Dr. William's return."

Keeping an eye on things. Something about that wording tightened Arthur's stomach. This man was an invader, intruding on Arthur in an already unsafe space. He took a slow breath, reminding himself Dr. Hassan was only a doctor, only trying to help, but it did nothing to stop the whispers in his ears. "Very well then," said Arthur anyway.

"Though I will not be treating you, I will be available if you would like to talk."

Somehow, Arthur doubted he would be taking this man up on that offer. When he first checked in, it had taken him over week to tell Matthew anything beyond his name. Arthur nodded. "Sure."

"I suppose I should introduce myself to the others." With that, Dr. Hassan turned to leave.

Arthur spoke without thinking. "Wait," he said. Dr. Hassan turned back, raised an eyebrow. "I was just wondering… do I have any visitors today?"

"No one has checked in, to my knowledge."

"Oh." Arthur swallowed thickly. It had been eight days since he had last seen Alfred. Eight days since that disastrous afternoon, when Arthur had been pulled so far under the current that nothing could save him. With a slight increase in his dosage of meds he was feeling a bit better, but it was a double-edged sword – regaining control meant remembering, and remembering meant living with the awful words he had said to Alfred. I HATE you…

"Arthur? Are you alright?"

Arthur looked back at Dr. Hassan, forcing the memory back down as best he could. "Yes, quite alright," he said. "Just a touch tired, is all."

"Well, make sure to get some rest." Without so much as a smile or a goodbye, Dr. Hassan left the room.

And Arthur was alone again.

So he remembered.

.

Arthur had things under control. At least, that was what he told himself when he, after a long internal push and pull, filled out an application for a community college with an acceptance rate in the mid-nineties and shoved it in the mailbox. It was not University of Chicago, but it was something. Enough to get him back on his feet while this whole big bloody mess sorted itself out. If all went as planned, Arthur would reapply and ultimately be readmitted come next fall. Surely by then, he would be able to sleep and think and remember things. Shutting the mailbox, he felt oddly proud of himself. Everything was under control.

And Arthur was only further affirmed that was the case when Alfred came charging at him in the hallway the next day, his smile uninhibited and their little spat a thing of the past. "Hey, Artie!" he cried, waving his hand in the air.

Arthur closed his locker and smiled genuinely for the first time in awhile. "Afternoon, Alfred."

"How are ya doing today?"

"Just fine," said Arthur honestly. It was lovely, being able to breathe and speak and smile so easily. He knew things would work out eventually. "And yourself?"

"Great!" Alfred flashed that crooked, goofy smile of his, and Arthur tried to ignore the affect it had on him. He brought his other hand, which had been behind his back, in front of his chest. He was clutching a thick, hardcover, matte-black book. "Look what I got!"

"Oh." Arthur stared at the book, a bit confused. "Is that a textbook?"

Alfred scoffed. "It's the yearbook, silly!"

Arthur furrowed his brow. "That seems a little premature."

"Well, we only got two weeks left, buddy." Alfred's smile twitched but did not fall. "Anyway, will you sign it?"

Two weeks. Arthur stared at Alfred, at his wide stance and bright smile, and tried to comprehend it. Two weeks was nothing. It was a blink of the eye. Somehow, while he was filling out applications and covering his tracks and panicking, time had gotten away from him. He thought he had more time.

"And, you know, there's the summer," said Alfred as if he had read his mind.

"Right," said Arthur slowly. "I won't be going anywhere just yet."

"Right," Alfred repeated back at him, staring momentarily at his shoes. Then he thrust the book out at Arthur, beaming, and said, "Well, go on now!"

"Alright, alright," said Arthur finally, snatching the book. He flipped to the autographs page, unsurprised to find it already adorned with dozens of colorful signatures. He searched for an empty spot, and then stared at that spot for what felt like a very, very long time. Suddenly, there was not a thought left in his head. In the three other years he had been in high school, Arthur had signed plenty of yearbooks. However, he knew simply signing his name or attaching a meaningless have a nice summer was not appropriate in this situation. No one had ever made him feel like Alfred had. And Arthur could not even begin to put that feeling into words.

"Hey, Art, you doing okay? You're acting a little weird."

Arthur scoffed, half indignant, half sad. Acting weird. What else was new? Pushing the thought down, he said, "You know what, Alfred, I'm terribly sorry, but it seems I don't have a pen right now."

"Oh." Alfred's face fell in disappointment. "I would give you one, but I usually borrow from people."

Arthur smirked. He should have expected as much. "Tell you what. I'll take this home with me and return it later. How does that sound?"

"Yeah, whatever," said Alfred with a shrug. "Just don't lose it!"

"As if I would ever…" Arthur trailed off indignantly and swung his messenger bag around, and then shoved the book inside. Once it was securely away, he said, "You had a game yesterday."

"Oh, yeah!" Alfred beamed. "We won, obviously. Man, lemme tell ya, it really got interesting after halftime."

Alfred launched into a detailed account of his game that Arthur could scarcely follow. Arthur nodded along anyway, his mind wandering, searching for what to write. The perfect words would come to him, he was sure. They would come right along with the perfect way to fix this, to tell Alfred the whole truth. He was sure of it.

If Arthur had grown skilled at anything over the months, it was buying time.

.

Alfred awoke on a boat, rocking madly in the sea. He was lost, disoriented, unsure what was up or down, what was water or air. His eyes were closed and he could not open them. He was being pushed, farther and farther away, until all that was left were waves and bright light and strange, sterile smells where perhaps salt water belonged. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of this, Alfred heard a voice from the sky.

"Alfred, my brother, can you open your eyes for me?"

The waves grew stronger, tossing Alfred around madly. His stomach turned inside out. He wondered if he would be cast overboard, powerless to the water surging beneath him.

"C'mon, bud."

Alfred grasped at the ground beneath him, searching for leverage, but realized he was not able to.

"Ah, damn that stubborn laceration. Looks like it opened itself up again…"

The waves grew, rose, and Alfred braced himself for the torrent. He waited to be swept under, to be dragged away and lost. He waited for the warm rush of salt water to engulf him. He waited, but then he only felt cool cloth on his forehead. The swirl in his gut came to stand still.

"Alright, Alfred, I need you to cooperate here."

And then Alfred pried his eyes open, for a moment unsure where he was. There was no boat or sun or open water. Only white walls and thin sheets and shining florescent lights. Twisted white sheets replaced the pounding waves. He felt a sharp stab of pain and another of dizziness, and finally found it in him to make a strangled sound. "Hmph…"

"There you go," said the voice, deep and smooth and unfamiliar. Alfred blinked against the blinding light to see where it was coming from. He saw dark skin, warm hazel eyes, hairy arms. A large hand was reaching out to press something to his face. A drop of warm water trailed from his forehead to his lips, the liquid tasting salty and sterile. Something stung. Alfred groaned again, and the man said, "I'm just cleaning you up, bud. Now I'm going to put a band-aid on that cut."

The cloth was taken away and Alfred felt something being pressed against his skin. He said nothing. Instead he just stared at the man before him, at his round body and garish floral shirt poking out from his white coat. His long black dreadlocks were pulled into a knot on top of his head, his face adorned with a short beard. Alfred trusted him, though he had no clue who he was. There was something fatherly about him.

"Good, you're finally awake. Alfred, my name is Dr. Carlos Machado."

A doctor. Of course. Alfred was in the hospital. He finally found it in him to speak, though his throat felt gravelly and raw. "I made it?"

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"

"New York. Right?" asked Alfred. After all, he saw the same white walls, the same artificial light.

"Alfred, I'm afraid you're in Jacksonville, Florida. Do you remember how you got here?"

Alfred vaguely remembered squealing tires, slicing glass. He closed his eyes again, half-exhausted, half trying to find his head. "Uh…"

"There was an accident. You were in a car crash, Alfred. The paramedics took you here last night." Alfred felt Carlos squeeze his shoulder. "Eyes open, alright?"

Alfred forced his eyes open, though it felt like something else was forcing them shut. "But, New York," he said.

"I understand this must be terribly confusing. But, you're in good hands here. We're taking care of you, okay? You're safe."

Alfred did not want to be taken care of. He felt a pang of anger, but it was suffocated by the puffy cloud that seemed to be surrounding him. He attempted to argue, but finally just gave up and sunk back into the pillow.

"You probably feel awfully tired. We gave you something for the pain, but it might make you feel a little loopy."

Oh. At least that explained something. Alfred had so many questions, none of which he had the energy or coherent thought to vocalize.

"We've told your brother where you are. Matthew, correct?"

Upon hearing his name, Alfred felt a sudden, powerful urge to see a familiar face. To hear a familiar voice. For something, anything that he recognized. It was powerful enough that he almost cried out, but it came out more like a whimper. Suddenly he was a little boy again, alone and scared and so, so confused.

"Alright, bud. You're okay. Matthew is on his way," said Carlos, giving his shoulder another squeeze. Alfred was grateful for it. "Now, we're going to get a nurse in here to run a couple tests."

Alfred could not think of anything more exhausting. He just wanted to sleep until all of this went away and he woke up where he belonged. He looked to Carlos, tried to shoot him a protesting look, but realized it hurt to do so.

"I know, I know. But, from what I keep hearing, I know you're a pretty strong guy." Carlos smiled. "Stay strong for me, brother. I know you've got it in you."

Strong? If Alfred had ever been strong, it was a lifetime ago. But he just nodded, struck silent by the pain in his chest, his arms, everywhere, and mentally prepared himself for whatever was coming. The sooner all this was over, the sooner he could get to Arthur.

…

Alfred did not know how much time passed like this, with people he didn't know and conversations he didn't understand. It passed in a muck of medication and pain and confusion. He was ragdoll, passed around doted on by strangers, unable to do a single thing on his own. In reality it was only hours, maybe a day or two, but it felt like years. Alfred felt glued to this bed. Sometimes he stared at the wall, thinking of Arthur, thinking of Matthew, thinking of Davie, wondering endlessly what they were doing, how he managed to let all of them down. But mostly, he slept. He was between awake and a dream, usually unable to tell the two apart.

Until finally, the door opened, Alfred heard a familiar voice, and something made sense again.

"Oh, Alfred…"

Alfred turned his head as much as he could, noticing with a jolt that Matthew was standing in the doorway. "Mattie, bro," he said, his throat aching with the words. He tried to smile, but his face felt frozen. "You heard, I guess."

"I did. I got on the first flight out." Matthew's voice sounded closer now, his footsteps echoing against the walls. The bed creaked. "How are you feeling?"

Alfred slowly surveyed the room, every tiny movement a marathon, trying to find his bearings. Then it all sharpened into a picture. Oh yeah, the hospital. Alfred barely remembered being dragged from his car, pulled half-alive to this bed and filled with more drugs than he could keep his head above. No matter how much Carlos tried to fill him in, he always seemed to forget. "They've got me on like, horse tranquilizers or something,'" he mumbled. The floor swayed again, and he said, "I'm floating."

Matthew mumbled something to himself, and Alfred choked out a response. What was said fell through the cracks of his consciousness.

"Nothing," said Matthew, falling back into focus. Alfred lost a few more words but managed to catch enough to understand. "…remember what happened at all… driving when… so tired?"

Alfred leant back into the security of the pillow, trying hard to keep his eyes on Matthew. He couldn't feel himself breathing, counting only on the rising and falling of his chest. He wondered for a moment if this was the afterlife. Then it would make sense why he could see him, almost feel him. "Arthur," he said finally, vocalizing it. "We fought…awhile go." The memory came crashing back and he knew this was not heaven. "Didn't know if he wanted to see me. But… it's been a week. I promised every week." He took a shallow breath, wondering how much time had passed, still wondering if he would make it. "Do I ever break promises?" he asked the air.

"No, you never break promises, Al," the air said back.

"How is he?"

"Huh?" said the air. Alfred suddenly remembered the air was Matthew.

"Arthur," said Alfred, his face burned into his mind. "Is he okay?"

"Yes, Arthur is just fine. He's…" Matthew hesitated, and Alfred clung to the words. "Responding well to treatment."

"That's great. Amazing." Alfred sighed, but was then struck by a sharp pain in his chest, sharp enough to rise above this fog. He brought a hand to it as if to rub it away. Then the fog pulled him under again, odd sparks dancing on the cracking white paint on the wall. "Hey, Mattie?" he said, barely aware of it. "I hate to kick you out, since you just got here and all, but they gave ton of meds, and…"

"You're tired," Matthew finished. "I understand, Al. Don't worry about it. I'll come back in a couple hours."

Alfred could feel himself quickly losing the battle to stay awake. He wasn't sure how long he had been in this room, but he had lost track of how many times this had happened. There was no use fighting it. "You're the best, bro," he said, his eyes drifting shut. The bed creaked again.

"Of course I am," said Matthew. And then, when Alfred was hanging by a thread, "Oh, Alfred, I'm sorry! I've been sitting on your leg this whole time. Why didn't you say anything?"

Alfred scrunched his nose, keeping his eyes closed because he didn't think he could open them. "Huh? No, you haven't."

"Yes, I have. See, I was sitting right here."

Alfred felt nothing but the heaviness pulling him down. He couldn't think anymore, couldn't be bothered to wonder what Matthew was talking about. Maybe he was already dreaming. "Where?" he asked anyway, exhausted by these confusing questions, this confusing limbo.

A sharp inhale, a long pause. "Never mind, I was wrong," was the last thing Alfred heard before he slipped back down, far enough that everything went away, far enough that he could see Arthur waiting for him.

.

By the second week, Arthur started to get nervous.

Alfred, though he vehemently claimed the opposite whenever he had the chance, often broke promises, usually because whatever he promised was impossible to keep. Whether it was promising Arthur would have fun at a dance he had no interest in, or promising to keep his feelings to himself when he had a heart bigger than his mouth, or even promising to somehow cure Arthur of his demons… it rarely worked out in his favor. He always bit off more than he could chew.

However, weekly visits seemed to be Alfred's hill to die on. So, when they were approaching fourteen days without a visit, Arthur could not shake the feeling something was deadly wrong.

The feeling that something was very, very wrong was something Arthur had dealt with constantly since he was eighteen years old. This was somehow more convincing than it ever had been. It followed Arthur everywhere, kept him up at night, and magnified exponentially every day Alfred failed to burst through the front door.

And then Arthur could not take it anymore, so he flagged Matthew down in the hallway moments after he came back. "Matthew!" he said, almost shouting. "Dr. Williams, do you have a moment?"

Matthew stopped in his tracks, staring briefly at the floor before turning to Arthur. "Oh, Arthur," he said. "Yes, I have a moment."

As Matthew walked over to him, physically dragging his feet, the feeling of wrongness intensified. Arthur stared at Matthew's stringy hair, his crooked glasses. This place must have been eating him – and everyone else – alive. "Oh, good. So, um…" Arthur trailed off, unsure how to go about this. "How was your time off?"

Matthew blinked, his expression unreadable. "Fine," he said.

"Oh, good," repeated Arthur. It wasn't a very believable answer, but if he was being honest, he didn't really care. Pleasantries aside, he finally came out and said it. "I don't mean to bother you, but have you by chance heard from Alfred?"

Matthew looked past Arthur then, over his shoulder and into the vacant commons. It always seemed to be empty these days. "His season just started," he said. "He's been a bit… busy. But yes, I've heard from him." Matthew looked again to Arthur. "Why?"

"He hasn't been around." Arthur paused, unsure if he should say more, if he had said too much already. Though he had lost much of his dignity over the months and years, he still had enough to think twice about prodding his therapist about Alfred's feelings like a schoolboy. Is he mad at me? Arthur wanted to ask, but simply felt too embarrassed to.

"Like I said, he's been busy."

"Of course," said Arthur. But Alfred had always been busy. It never stopped him before. The only thing Arthur could think of, though he could not bare to think about it for too long, was that Alfred had gotten tired of the freakshow. His stomach turned and finally, the question escaped him. "Is he upset?" A pause. Arthur wanted to kick himself, but he kept going anyway. "With me?"

"Oh, no, Arthur. Not at all." Matthew shook his head, sounding sure, and Arthur tried to believe him. "No one is mad at you," he said, a little too patronizingly.

"It's just been awhile." Arthur hoped he sounded flippant despite the wild panic he had been fighting for days. He needed to know more, needed to know anything.

"I know, but Arthur, please don't worry about Alfred."

Arthur stared at him, taken aback. "I'm sorry?"

"Your main priority here is recovery," said Matthew. "I know Alfred means a lot to you, but… I just think it would be in your best interest to focus on yourself."

Arthur could have laughed. Alfred had stubbornly held his focus since high school. He had that effect on most everyone, actually. Alfred's smile, his charisma, his energy – it was like a magnetic pull. And to Arthur he was so much more than even that. Alfred was thoughtful and careless and infuriating and heroic. He was everything. Asking him to ignore him was like asking to forget the stars at night. But there was no sense in arguing with Matthew. "I… suppose," said Arthur uneasily.

"I'm not saying he won't come back." Matthew crossed his arms over his wrinkled flannel. "I just want you to focus on you and your health. Not wait up for Alfred."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak but instead dropped his gaze to the floor. What was he supposed to say? That he was sick and tired of focusing on himself? That he was so, so lonely, having spent the past ten years hiding? That even now, in a psychiatric ward, he still managed to be an outcast? That his brothers didn't know him, that even his roommates ignored him, and Alfred was his light in his darkness? That Alfred was probably the only person left who saw him as something more than poor, crazy Arthur? But of course, Arthur could say none of that. So he stared at the floor.

"I just want you to be okay." Arthur looked up at Matthew and realized with a jolt that his eyes were bleary. "I just want you to be okay, Arthur. I want everyone to be okay."

"I am okay," said Arthur, a little stunned he was now in the odd position of comforting his therapist. Suddenly, he felt bad for him. Being here was bad enough, he couldn't imagine what holding it all together must be like. "I hope everything works out." Arthur wasn't sure who the words were for, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Matthew nodded, removing his glasses to wipe them on his sleeve. "Yes, yes," he mumbled. "I'm sorry. Everything is fine. Everything will be just fine."

Arthur got the feeling that Matthew only said that for himself.

"Well, I have to go," said Matthew quickly, shoving his glasses back on. Before Arthur could respond, Matthew took off and made a beeline for what used to be Mathias's single room. Gilbert had moved there after the fight, Arthur was pretty sure.

Arthur looked out to the courtyard unthinkingly, only to see that the flowers had been ripped up, thrown to the ground and destroyed.

…

It had officially passed the two-week mark when Arthur was sitting in the dining hall, picking his way through cold, soggy eggs. He had nearly zoned out, lost in thought and worry. But then Gilbert collapsed in the chair across from him. His plated crashed against the table, sending a spray of red jam across the surface.

"Art," he said. "We need to have a chat."

Arthur inhaled sharply, snapping to attention. In the months he had spent here no one had bothered to eat with him. "Um…"

"I've got one question for you." Gilbert collected his food and took a rather violent bite of jam-slathered toast, staring at Arthur the whole time. He had two black eyes that had faded to a sickly green. Yellowing thumb-print bruises ringed his neck like pearls. "Do you know where Alfred is?"

Arthur curled his fingers around the wood of the table, confused and unsure how to deal with it. "How do you even know him?" he asked.

"Matthew… tells me a lot of things. Anyway," said Gilbert, turning his attention to the sad looking sausages on his plate. He began cutting them into tiny pieces, forming neat little rows. "Answer the question. Do you know where he is?"

Arthur could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. He tightened his grip on the table's edge. "No," he said.

"Thought so." Gilbert leaned forward, resting an arm on the table. "Listen, I know we never really talk, but you need to hear this."

Arthur pushed his plate away, knowing he would not be able to stomach another bite. He nodded.

"There's been an accident."

"An accident?" Arthur repeated, barely understanding the words. "What do you mean?"

"Alfred. He was in a car crash."

A car crash… suddenly the pieces flew together and it all made startling, perfect, horrifying sense. Alfred had been so far away for his game. I told you, every week! "So, he's…" Arthur took a shallow breath. "He's…"

Gilbert waved his arms about, as if to break Arthur from a trance. "Alright, calm down time. He's not dead or anything."

Arthur blinked, just as taken aback as he was relieved. Dead? Who said anything about dead? He better damn well not be dead, or Arthur would have killed him. Arthur slammed a hand on the table, catching his discarded fork in the process, sending a bit of stray egg flying upward. Gilbert watched as the egg descended to the table, an amused smirk on his face. Arthur moved on. "Why didn't Matthew tell me?" He suddenly felt angry, insulted Matthew had hid this from him.

"Look, Matthew has about a million and one things to deal with. He didn't want to make your life any harder." Gilbert exhaled audibly. "He's… he's a great guy, okay? He really wasn't trying to hurt you. You have to understand."

"Okay, okay. I understand," said Arthur, nodding. He supposed he couldn't blame Matthew too much, all things considered. His thoughts returned to Alfred, his stomach twisting wildly. "Is he hurt?"

"I mean, obviously. You can't really play chicken with a truck and come out unscathed." Arthur's eyes widened, and Gilbert hurriedly continued. "Look, I'm not sure exactly. But, if it's enough to keep him away, I assume it's pretty bad."

Arthur shook his head, baffled. "How do you know all of this?"

"Like I just said, Matthew tells me a lot of things." Gilbert paused, looked away. "We've gotten kind of close."

Arthur reeled back from his panic just enough to be incredulous, slowly putting two and two together. Well, that would explain why Gilbert's sessions were nearly twice as long as everyone else's, at least. Arthur almost wanted to ask if there were any other secret relationships he should know about – who was next, Ivan? – but then remembered what was important. "Did Matthew say anything else?"

Gilbert shook his head. "Not really. He's still pretty broken up about everything. All I know is wherever the guy is, he's pretty much stuck there."

Arthur wondered briefly what he was supposed to do with this information. He was, after all, just as stuck. Then, when he thought about Alfred's visits, remembered how many miles he drove, remembered all he did to find him to begin with, the answer was stunningly clear. "I have to go to him," said Arthur resolutely.

Gilbert leaned the chair back on two legs, the cheap plastic creaking, crossing his arms over his chest. "You think that's a good idea?"

Arthur hardened his gaze. "It's my only option."

"You sound kind of nuts, but that's the name of the game here, isn't it?" Gilbert smirked, let out a short laugh. The chair landed back on four legs with a clunk. "Tell you the truth, I kind of expected you would say something like that."

"They won't just let me walk out of here," said Arthur, his mind turning with options, each one leading to a dead end. "So… I need to find a way out," he finished in a whisper. Arthur could not believe what he was considering, what he was very nearly planning. He had never even snuck out of the house as a teenager. And now this.

"Alright. Listen. If you're going to do whatever it is you're going to do, you need to go about it, well… not like a dumbass."

There was not much to say about his tact, but Arthur had to agree with him. "Do you know where he is?"

"That, I don't know, but I think I can get it out of Matthew."

Arthur nodded, dizzied by the direction this was taking. "Right. Then I would have an address. And then…" Arthur trailed off, at least partly hoping Gilbert would continue for him. If Gilbert was somehow able to secure Alfred's location, that would be all Arthur had. An address and a dream, he guessed.

"Do you have any money?"

"I… came in here with a wallet," said Arthur. It felt like a hundred years ago.

"Right." Gilbert spoke quietly. "Well, buddy, you're in luck. I happen to know Matthew keeps all that stuff we get confiscated in his file cabinet. The third drawer from the bottom."

"His file cabinet. Okay, so…"

"Tell you what," said Gilbert, tapping the table as if there were a map. "After my next session, I'll make sure Matthew leaves first. I'll leave the door ajar." He leaned even farther forward, practically lying on the table at this point. "This next thing is very important. You need a paperclip."

This had to be the twilight zone. Arthur closed his eyes and opened them forcefully, willing himself to wake up from this bizarre dream. When he found himself still in the cafeteria, he said, "What?"

"A paperclip. To pick the lock. They're old, it's easy." Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Don't ask how I know that."

Arthur wasn't about to. He nodded, trying to absorb everything.

"Your shoes and shit should be there too. Make sure to grab those, because some guy running around barefoot in pajamas mumbling to himself might set off alarm bells for some people." Arthur glared at that, and Gilbert said, "Hey, I'm just saying. Anyway, I should be able to get that address to you in a day or so."

In the span of ten minutes, Arthur had gone from barely knowing Gilbert to owing him his life. He was unsure whether to grovel at his feet or search for ulterior motive. So, he just asked, "Why are you doing all this?"

"Well," said Gilbert, pushing his food around without eating it. He looked up at Arthur, a faint, sad look in his eyes. "I understand what it's like to want something out of reach."

Arthur realized this was not as simple as he had thought at first. Of course it had to be that way; Matthew was their therapist, after all. He almost laughed. Could nothing in this place be easy? He found himself wondering if he and Gilbert could be friends, if they ever saw each other again, that was. At the very least they understood each other. But, Arthur had to leave. Strangely, that was beginning to feel bittersweet. "Thank you," he said, meaning it with all his heart. "But, how am I supposed to get out of here?"

Gilbert shook his head. "That, you need to figure out on your own. I can get you the address, but that's about as much of an accomplice as I'm willing to make myself."

"Alright," said Arthur. He supposed that was fair. "Thank you again. Really."

"Sure." Then Gilbert drew his eyebrows together, staring at Arthur pointedly. "I ask one thing. You better not tell Matthew I'm doing this. I feel like shit doing this to him, but it's for the best, I hope." Gilbert paused, drawing in a breath. "So, don't fuck it up. You better make it to him alive, Kirkland."

Arthur could not help but feel that was a little dramatic, but considering the circumstances, it might just not be. He nodded, shaking but determined. "I won't tell a soul," he said. He couldn't promise much of anything else.

Gilbert stood, taking his plate of mostly uneaten food. "Good luck in the real world, man," he said. He looked into the distance, for a moment looking hopeful. Arthur could not remember the last time someone here had looked that way. It reminded him of Alfred. "I hope I can join you soon."

To be continued...