The other passengers, other people, flowed around them like water.
"It's good to see you," Joey said, and Craig lifted his head and looked at him, and Joey thought one thing: broken.
He kept flashing back. He'd said nearly the same thing to him at Spike's birthday party all those years ago, and Craig had been as unhappy and uncomfortable then as he was now.
Joey hugged him and felt Craig stiffen and pull away even as he patted his back, and he realized he had always pulled away from every touch, every hug.
"Okay, let's go," Joey said, letting him go, and Craig looked down at the floor again.
"Joey?"
They were walking toward the baggage pick-up and Joey had been concentrating on the patterns the sun made on the floor.
"Yeah?"
"Are, um, are we going home first or to the, that place?"
"We're going right there,"
"Oh,"
In the car, the sun blazing on everything, there wasn't anything to say. Craig was looking out the window and Joey drove.
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It looked like a hospital because it was, once.
"Well, we're here," Joey said, and Craig looked over at the building, eyes wide.
Inside, gray rugs and subdued lighting, a woman at a desk behind a wall and a window. A row of chairs against the opposite wall, and Craig slumped in one of them. Joey went over to the window and the woman looked up, politely questioning.
"Uh, hi. I'm here to check in. Not me, my son,"
"His name?" Her voice was soft, professional, and for some reason it put Joey more at ease.
"Craig Manning,"
She rifled through some papers and nodded.
"Alright. Just have a seat, Mr. Manning. It'll be a minute,"
She had called him Mr. Manning and he didn't correct her, but he saw the flash of anger in Craig's eyes when she said that. Then it was gone.
He sat in a chair near Craig to wait, and neither of them spoke. Not a word.
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He was in the office of a woman, the administrator? A nurse, a social worker? All three? Joey was uncertain of her title, but she wore a wool suit the color of oatmeal and her hair was pulled back but some had escaped, making her look almost sexy.
Someone else had taken Craig, and he'd looked back at Joey with a sort of desperation he'd last seen in his eyes around the time Albert had died.
"Mr. Manning…" she began.
"It's Jeremiah. Joey Jeremiah," he said, "Craig's my step-son,"
"Oh. I'm sorry. Mr. Jeremiah, I'd like to go over some information about Craig with you. It's helpful when we have a history about our patients,"
Joey nodded, licked his lips, felt nervous.
"What illegal drugs does he take, that you know of?"
"Cocaine," It sounded awful. He thought of swanky yuppies from the 80's snorting off of mirrors with rolled up one hundred dollar bills.
"Anything else?"
Joey shook his head. Not that he knew of.
"Does he drink alcohol?"
"I don't know,"
"Is he on any prescription medications?"
"Yeah. Lithium,"
"He's bipolar?"
"Yeah,"
She nodded, jotted his answers down, didn't look too surprised.
"That's very common," she said, "for our patients to have a diagnosed mental illness. We call it dual diagnosis,"
It might be common for her, Joey thought, but he was having a tough time dealing with it. One diagnosis was bad enough.
"Does he have a history of abuse?"
"Abuse? Yeah," This question surprised him, though maybe it shouldn't have.
"Physical or sexual abuse, or both?"
Joey closed his eyes, heard the sounds of the cars rushing by on the road nearby. He was tired. He was tired of dealing with this.
"Just physical. His father, his father beat him,"
She nodded slightly, jotted it all down.
"Is Craig violent? Does he have a history of being violent?"
"No, he's not," Joey started, then paused, "well he was once, before he was first hospitalized for the bipolar,"
Joey swallowed, suddenly his mouth felt dry. The light was taking on that soft gold late afternoon hue.