CHAPTER FOUR: Saturday, January 12, 2013, 3:31 p.m.

Joan had returned several times during the day and had painstakingly unpacked the food she had received from several food pantries in the city. There were plenty of homeless people in New York City, so there were plenty of soup kitchens, pantries, and shelters throughout the city. John continued to sleep each time she came back with food. She had decided to let him sleep and then wake him up when she returned from her final trip.

For dinner she decided on canned chicken noodle soup and apple juice. As she entered her tent, she could see that he was still shivering in his sleep. She wondered if it was unusual for chills and fever to last this long. She just didn't know a lot about illnesses because she hadn't had a lot of experience with them. Her son had died quite a few years ago when he was a little boy, sending her down the path to the life she was living now.

What she knew about fevers was that they were sometimes caused by infections, and infections needed antibiotics. Antibiotics were attainable on the streets. All she had to do was send out the word that she was in the market for antibiotics, and she felt confident that they would be in her possession in very little time. The homeless were a network of people who knew how to depend on each other to survive. She went ahead and prepared the soup by pouring half of it in a cup and then adding some water. She also opened the bottle of apple juice. "John, I need to you wake up again," she said softly to him.

His eyes shot open and began firing back and forth across the tent. His expression again showed his unawareness of where he was and his uncertainty about what was happening to him.

"It's okay, John," Joan said then paused for several moments. "I want you to eat some of this soup." She had placed a plastic spoon down into the cup. "Sit up, okay?"

He looked at her as he moved himself up into a seated position against the wall. "Water. Do you have any water? I'm so thirsty," John said.

"Here," Joan answered, "try this." She handed him the bottle of apple juice.

He looked at it with a puzzled expression. Its light brown appearance reminded him of something. Flashing in his mind were three large men and light brown liquid they forced down his throat. It had tasted bad and made his throat feel irritated and sore. "Vinegar," John whispered. "They forced me to drink vinegar."

"This is apple juice…I promise. It will be good for you," Joan said as she patted him lightly on the back of his neck.

John unthinkingly reached out with his battered left hand. She offered him a small smile then reached down and inserted the bottle in his right hand. When he became aware of what had just happened, he looked down at his left hand and stared at his injured fingers. "What has happened to me?" he asked in whisper tones.

"I'm not sure yet. We'll figure it out. In the time being, you need to regain your strength," she said. "Go ahead...take a drink of the juice."

He did as he was told. The apple juice was sickening sweet and tangy, but he continued to drink.

"You drank vinegar?" Joan asked. She wasn't comfortable prying into his business, but John needed her to help him make sense these pieces and flashes of memory.

He nodded. "Three men. I don't know who they are. Two had Russian accents…they sometimes spoke in Russian. I can remember that."

Joan couldn't figure out why they would force him to drink vinegar. In addition to being shot, beaten, and having food and drink withheld, why on earth would they make him drink vinegar, she wondered. After several minutes, she asked, "Why vinegar?"

"To speed up dehydration," John answered. He was surprised that that information came readily to him.

"Oh my God...who would you that?" Joan cried.

"I don't know who they are and why they did this to me," John said.

"Here," she said, holding out the cup of chicken soup towards him. "Eat all of this for me."

John reached out and took the cup of soup from her. "Okay," he answered.

Joan couldn't hold back, "They have to be monsters to force a man to drink vinegar to make him dehydrated!"

He nodded in agreement as he began eating one small bite at a time of the chicken noodle soup she had prepared for him.

A few minutes later, Joan asked, "Who's Finch?" She had remembered the name from yesterday.

"He's my boss…I think," John answered without any forethought. He looked surprised for being able to recall that piece of information, too.

"Very good," Joan said. "Is that his nickname…last name?"

"His last name, I think," John answered, taking another gulp of the juice.

"What's the line of work? What do you do?" Joan asked. She knew that he helped people who were in trouble, but she didn't exactly know who or what he worked for.

"I don't remember," John answered, putting down the bottle on the floor beside the soup cup so he could wrap his hand around his forehead. "My head is killing me."

Joan could see him pressing into his forehead to try and alleviate the pain. "How about some more medicine?" she asked.

"Okay," he answered. "So much for all day relief...even with a double dose." He offered up a weak smile at her.

Joan laughed, "Right." Then she added, "Pretty soon I'm going to get you some antibiotics to take care of that infection, which must be what's causing your fever and chills."

"You trust it?" John asked apprehensively.

"Sure…I wouldn't be giving you something if I thought it would hurt you," she smiled and patted him on the arm then placed the back of her hand against his cheeks. Handing him the Aleve, she watched him drink the rest of the juice and get down a single does this time of the little light-blue pills. "Keep eatin' that soup."

John took another bite. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Close to four I guess," she answered. "You still sleepy?"

"Yes, I feel like I haven't slept in a year," John answered.

"Looks like your chills have slowed down a little," Joan said as she looked him over.

John didn't answer. He hadn't thought about it.

"What kind of work are you and Finch in?" she asked unexpectantly.

"I work for Finch…we work for ourselves to help people in trouble," John answered without thinking.

"Okay, that's a start," Joan answered.

John looked up at her and offered her another small smile. "It's a start," he agreed.