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CHAPTER 12

The delicious aroma of food rouses Amy from yet another unplanned snooze. The man who is both her savior and her captor must have gone out to get something to eat.

He motions for her to sit up and then sets a flat piece of plywood across her lap that acts as a makeshift tray. Upon it is a bowl of clear, yellowish broth, some crackers, and a cup of juice. She doesn't trust her companion one bit, but she supposes that starving herself won't do anything to improve her situation.

"Best to start with plain foods," he says.

The man sits back in his chair and puts one foot up onto his opposite knee. It feels weird to have him sitting there watching her while she eats, but she decides to ignore him as best she can. Her stomach rumbles its demands, so she eagerly spoons soup into her mouth.

"You might wanna go slow there, hon."

He's called her that a few times now, and she hates it. "My name is Amy," she offers, hoping that he'll address her by name instead.

A normal person would respond with their own name, but this guy doesn't say a word. She nibbles on a cracker and decides to ask him directly. "What's your name?"

"You mean back when I lived among the rest of the American sheeple? That name doesn't matter at this point. It sucked anyway. But you know, I did always like the name Simon, so I tend to go by that these days."

It might not be a good idea, but curiosity gets the better of her. If she's going to talk this man into letting her go home, then maybe it might help to get a sense of how his mind works. "So... Simon, why do you refer to everyone as sheeple?"

He wrinkles his nose. "Capitalism run amok, surveillance on everyone, the lives of us all at the mercy of the elite. It's a fucked up world, and people don't even notice. If they've got their fast food and their cable tv, then the whole world could burn around them, and they wouldn't even notice. It's all bullshit, so I checked out of it. I've got money saved and live cheap. No reason to keep working for someone else when I don't have to."

Amy continues to eat while Simon regales her with paranoid theories about politics, religion, social issues, and things that would only make sense on one of those ridiculous episodes of The X-Files that Sheldon watches. He seems particularly fond of ranting about the American health care system. "Think about it. If you were in the hospital right now, you'd just end up a debt slave for life. Believe me, I know what it all costs. God bless America, right?"

She doesn't voice any opinions of her own. It's not that Amy doesn't hold strong views, and she's not shy about sharing them, but it seems unwise to discuss politics or religion with a man as unpredictable as this. It is becoming more and more clear how unstable he is. She will need to be careful about anything that she says.

When there is a break in his ravings, she jumps at the chance to change the subject and fish for more information at the same time. "Is this your house?"

He chuckles. "Seriously? One can't own a house in California and still be said to live cheap. Nah, this place was just the closest spot to hole up. Folks who lived here must have moved out, but I think it was recent because they've still got the water and electricity turned on. Probably just another set of suckers who bought into the idea of the American dream only to have it all fall apart."

Simon stands up and removes the remnants of Amy's meal. It takes conscious effort to avoid flinching away whenever he approaches her, and she tries to remind herself that as far as she knows, he has not caused her any harm.

"Thank you," she says, deciding that it's best to be polite. He smiles at her and steps out of the room with her tray.

Whatever his intentions may be, she knows that her wellbeing is at his mercy right now. He strikes her as socially awkward, smart, and bat-shit crazy. This is a combination of traits that Amy figures she can work with. Unfortunately, he's also paranoid, bitter, and prone to fits of irrationality. She closes her eyes and prays to any god that might listen, hoping that his odd behavior will not turn into anger towards her.

Simon returns, resuming his place in the avocado green monstrosity of a chair. He rummages through the front pocket of his backpack and pulls out a flat, cylindrical container. He pinches out what looks like a small wad of dirt, then stuffs it between his cheek and his lip. Chewing tobacco. Gross.

Her disgust must show on her face because he looks at her and says, "I'd rather smoke, but I didn't want the second-hand smoke to interfere with your wound healing."

That's a more considerate motivation than she would've expected. Amy still can't decide if this man is a dangerous threat or an unusual hero, and trying to puzzle it out is making the throbbing in her skull come back with a vengeance. She closes her eyes and winces at the increasing pain.

"Well, now that you seem to have your wits about you, I'll leave it up to you. Do you want a narcotic or do you want to tough it out with some ibuprofen?"

"What have you been giving me?"

"Oxycodone. You can't handle much of that, by the way. You know how they say that redheads require higher doses of painkillers? You're like the opposite. It isn't pretty." He punctuates his statement by spitting dark goop into an empty soda can. That's not so pretty either.

Amy wonders what happened in this man's life to turn him from being a doctor into being… whatever the hell he is now. It's probably unwise to ask something like that. Instead she questions, "Do you always travel with a supply of narcotics when you go for a hike?"

He smirks. "Let's not discuss how I got it. I'd prefer to keep it for recreational purposes, so I hope you appreciate my sacrifice in sharing it with you."

Amy's not interested in putting her mind back into the awful, hazy fog that she remembers waking up to. "I'd prefer ibuprofen."

"Suit yourself." He shakes two pills out of the bottle in the side pocket of his backpack and gets up to hand her both the medication and the water.

She downs the pills and hopes that they will offer some relief. Continuing to drink more water will help too, but doing so is starting to cause her a different kind of discomfort.

"I need to use the bathroom."

He chuckles. "Well, I'd offer to help you get to the actual bathroom, but I've been down that road before. In addition to being belligerent and stubborn, you're also kind of a prude, you know?"

Squatting down, he grabs a small plastic tub from off the floor and tosses it onto the bed. "You'll have to make do with this." He turns towards the door and adds, "I'll leave you to it."

"Wait." Amy fights the urgings of her bladder. She needs the relief of answers even more. "You keep talking about things that I don't remember. What's been going on?"

Simon turns back into the room and picks up the soda can. She looks away while he spits tobacco juice into it again.

"Well, I told you before that you were pretty out of it. I figure you've got a concussion to go along with that gash above your ear. Anyway, you kept falling into a freakishly deep sleep. Each time you woke up, I had to explain things all over again. And then there were the narcotics. The pills helped you sleep with less pain but didn't help with your short term memory problem. And of course, none of it fucking helped your disposition."

"You keep telling me that I've been… difficult."

He barks out a laugh. "Hell yeah. You've been a huge pain in the ass."

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"You didn't seem to know where you were or what was going on. You kept calling for someone named Sheila or 'chelle. I dunno, maybe Michelle? Is that a sister, or are you a lesbian or something?"

"What?"

"It's okay. That shit's hot."

"I'm not…" Amy rubs her forehead with her good hand, trying to make sense of any of this. "Look, it doesn't matter. It's, um, I guess you must've had a long night taking care of me."

He wrinkles his eyebrows and squints at her with a look of surprise. "Long night? Are you kidding? I've been putting up with your craziness for five days."

—

On Monday morning, Leonard emerges from his room to a familiar sight. His roommate is sitting in his spot with his attention focused on some paperwork. Less familiar is the sight of Sheldon's messy hair, tired eyes, and rumpled pajamas.

Leonard clears his throat, but it doesn't break his friend's concentration. "Hey, Sheldon?"

"Hmm?" He still doesn't look over, but at least he is responding.

"Look, buddy, it's Monday morning. What do you want to do about work?"

"I am working."

Leonard sighs. "I'm talking about your job. Cal Tech? What are you going to tell Siebert?"

Sheldon finally looks up from what he has been doing. "I hadn't thought of that." He turns back and starts reading again. With a pen in his hand, he puts a mark on one of the papers.

Frustrated, Leonard throws his hands up in the air. "Well, think about it!"

The exclamation is enough to recapture his roommate's attention. "Okay, I've thought about it. I can't concern myself with that right now. The university knows that Amy is… missing. Tell Siebert that I'll return to work when Amy does."

It's been difficult to watch his friend go through this. While Leonard does miss Amy, he knows that it is nothing compared to what Sheldon must be feeling. He walks over and sits down, eyeing the papers spread out on the table. It looks like a bunch of maps and several long lists of names.

"Did you know that there are only three and a half thousand people who live in the town of Agua Dulce, Leonard?"

"No, I didn't." Leaning closer, he can see that quite a few names and locations are crossed off. "You can't really be planning to visit every single home in that town."

"I can, I am, and I will. Amy has to be somewhere. We just have to figure out where, and this town is the most likely place that she could be." His answer sounds confident, and he continues to work his way down a list of names, cross-checking them with the map he has spread out in front of him. When he reaches the end of the page, he suddenly tosses his pen down and buries his head in his hands. He has sounded calm and assured, but Leonard can see that his weak facade is crumbling.

Sheldon's voice cracks the next time he speaks. "She can't have just vanished into thin air."

This level of obsessiveness is to be expected, and Leonard is sure that he would be just as big of a mess as Sheldon if their situations were reversed. Still, he worries for his friend—for both of his friends.

"Do you want me to call your mother?"

"I already have. When she heard what was happening, she wanted to come here, but I told her not to. Instead, she agreed that she would 'pray about it'. I expect that to be about as effective as spitting and hoping that it will put out a multi-acre forest fire."

Leonard stands up, preparing to leave for work, and while he does so, he tries to think of anything at all that might help. Only one thing comes to mind. "Maybe you should try to do what you think Amy would want you to do in this situation."

Sheldon unburies his his face from his hands. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you know that she would never want you to lose your job. She knows how important your work is to you. If she were standing here right now, she would probably insist that you behave like a professional by emailing Dr. Siebert to request time off. In addition to that, I'm certain that she would demand that you eat, take a shower, and get some sleep before you do anything stupid."

With a weak half-smile, Sheldon concedes, "Yes, I'm sure that she would. In fact, I bet she'd go through a complete rundown of exactly what happens to a person's neurobiological functions when they don't eat or sleep properly."

Leonard smiles back. "When she gets back and sees you, I think you'll get that speech complete with charts, graphs, and a bibliography."

"I look forward to it," he whispers.

The hint of a smile soon fades from Sheldon's pale face. He turns his reddened eyes up to Leonard and continues, "You do believe that she's coming back, right?"

The truth, of course, is that he is not so sure. The reality of the situation is grim, but he wants to hold on to the denial and the hope for as long as possible. He forces himself to look at his friend's desperate face, and he prays that he isn't lying. "She'll be back. I'm sure she would never miss the chance to lecture you about neurological impairment."

—-

With Simon out of the room, Amy carefully maneuvers herself into position to void her bladder. The indignity of urinating into this container is real, but it pales in comparison to everything else that has been going on.

Five days. Amy never even considered that she has been gone that long. A combination of unconsciousness and disturbed sleeping patterns must've altered her perception of time. She remembers taking a few naps recently, but now she suspects that those short rests may have been hours long. Five days gone by would make today Monday, the day that she was supposed to return to work.

Amy's bladder is relieved, but her mind is awhirl with the new information. She sets the container aside and tries to rearrange her sore limbs into a tolerable position.

It occurs to her that her friends must be aware that she is missing by now. Penny has had access to her GPS coordinates all along, so they should have been able to locate her phone. If they have, then they must know that something has gone terribly wrong. Sheldon must know too.

Sheldon. Amy closes her eyes to try to hold back her tears. She wishes that he were the one here to take care of her. He would make her sourdough bread, sing her childish get well songs, and make absurd demands for her to get better faster.

Her eyes snap open. Or maybe he wouldn't. She reminds herself that with their relationship ended, he would be under no obligation to take care of her. The thought stings, but she can't afford to dwell on it now.

Amy thumbs the tears out of the corners of her eyes. Simon will be back soon, and she has no desire to talk about Sheldon with him.

It's strange to think that she's spent five days with this mysterious man. He must've done a great deal more to take care of her than she originally thought. It sounds like she was lucid often enough to drink and take medication, but there's no question that she would have been helpless and dependent on him for survival.

She could almost think of it as admirable if she could forget about waking up in restraints. Or if he could ever manage to answer a question in a way that doesn't scare her. And really, a doctor should know damn well that she belongs in a hospital. He may have been able to sew up the laceration, but a head injury is nothing to fool around with. Simon's intentions remain unclear.

By his own admission, it has been a difficult five days. Why, then, has he chosen to do it? What the hell does he want with her?

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