(Author's Note: Bear with me. I'm in a novel-writing mood...)

The World Changes That Fast

PART 2

Chapter 7

He thinks he might just possibly be going insane. Or maybe there was damage done that's not measurable by the technology available to modern medicine. One hit too many to the head; there's no telling what got scrambled. It's as if he's been put back together wrong, or set down a few inches to the left or right of where he was before all this, reawakened to an alternate universe that he doesn't quite fit into properly.

His first week back at work.

The job used to be simple even when it was difficult. Each staple, signature, bullet belonged where he put it and he was confident about putting it there. Now nothing sits right. He looks down at the report he's compiled and wonders if it should've been bundled together like this. What do the contents of page five have to do with the contents of page three? He flips back and forth between them and tries to make sense of the world of this one fugitive. There's a name at the top of page five and he scans page three hoping to find its match, eyes flitting top-right to bottom-left, middle, no pattern, no method. What was the name again? Back to page five. He's near to panicking.

"Tim, is that my report?" Art appears and snatches the papers away from his hands and skims through them page by page. "Perfect. Thank you."

He watches the papers as they're unceremoniously rolled up while Art talks about something, the offending staple lost in the center of a swirl of white, the text looking like a trompe l'oeil of typeset pathways leading over a miniature horizon and then back again, endlessly.

Art hits him on the head with it. "Are you even listening to me? Don't you have rehab at four? It's Wednesday."

"Shit. Right."

"We'll see you tomorrow then."

He's outside on the street when he checks his watch. 2:30 – Art's kicked him out early. He decides to walk to the hospital, kill time, loosen up the knee after a day sitting behind a desk. He'd like to bitch about being stuck on desk duty but he can't; he shouldn't even be in the office. He's ridiculously grateful that Art didn't send him home again last Friday when he showed up at the courthouse, new weapon in his holster, walked right into the glass office and said, "I'm done with this convalescence shit."

"You're done?" Art took it in stride. "Well-done? Medium-rare?"

"Well-done, burnt."

Art walked over and without any warning shoved him backward and he stumbled and grimaced and favored his one knee and at the same time instinctively moved an arm up to his side holding himself defensively, holding his ribs. He dropped the arm again quickly, tried to stand straight, but not quick enough. Art's keen eyes saw everything.

"I think you still look a bit rare."

He tried to breathe normally. "That wasn't fair."

"Since when do you believe that anything about this job is fair?"

"Look, I've been sitting at home for three weeks, plus four in the hospital…"

"And the trail is getting cold."

Art spoke over the whining, each word with a noticeable pause after so there'd be no mistaking his meaning.

He remembered mumbling something that was not quite a denial, something like: "You know I can do just as much investigating at home as here."

"Really. So tell me, what have you found out?"

It's hard arguing with Art when his sarcasm is cranked to eleven. Tim pleaded. "Can't you can find me something to do that won't involve being…physical?"

Art allowed Tim a pass on the last question, not expecting an answer, addressed Tim's. "There are strict rules I have to follow concerning your disability leave."

"Rules or…guidelines?"

"Tim, this isn't Disney. This is the United States Marshals Service. This isn't a pirate ship. This is my office. The bad guys don't carry sabres. They carry loaded guns."

"C'mon, Art. I'll do anything. Isn't there something in the guidelines that'll let me…I dunno, do a job involving paper and a computer that won't piss off whoever…" He waved vaguely.

"By whoever, I suppose you mean not only the people in HR but also your rehab team, your doctor, and the psychologist that you haven't been to see yet?" Art didn't expect an answer to this question either. His thoughts and eyes were already moving on, zeroed in on a full holster. "You been to the range with that thing? Maybe I gave you a fake just to keep you quiet."

"I've fired it a few times. It works."

"Of course you have. Silly me. Probably already fired it more than I have mine and I've had this one a few years." He gestured for Tim's service weapon and Tim hesitated. Art was instantly suspicious. "Hand it over."

Tim did, reluctantly.

The new gun was subjected to a thorough examination.

"You changed the trigger."

"Yep."

A knowing huff. "Why am I not surprised. Reduce the pull weight?" No answer was all the answer Art needed. "Shit. Do you really...?" He handed Tim back his gun. "Well, I miss you. I hate having to look at Raylan – your empty desk isn't enough of a barrier. But don't make me chain you to it. You're on light duty, administrative only, until I say so. Understood?"

It was easier than he thought it would be to convince Art it was time, easy enough that he doubts it's a win. He wonders if somehow Art manipulated the whole thing and actually had him out longer than necessary, or maybe let him back early to keep an eye on him. But that's just one doubt in a string of them, and not the most important.

He checks his watch again to be sure he didn't misread it – 2:30 – then heads toward the hospital for his appointment.

The route he chooses takes him past The Chase and he thinks a beer might be nice before he has to sit in outpatients waiting for his turn in the torture chamber, maybe some wings too so he can keep his favorite waitress coming to the table more often. He's not really hungry. Raylan dragged him out for lunch earlier to drill him about his recovery timeline, more impatient than he is. How's rehab going? Is the hand healing all right? When does he think he'll be fit on a weapon again? Does he have to requalify? He choked on a piece of his burger attempting to answer the rapid-fire questions. The look of horror on Raylan's face was worth the twinge in the ribs and the residual burn in the lungs. He's going to milk that one, start coughing next time Raylan asks him for a favor.

The Chase is dead between lunch and happy hour, two men in suits discussing business in a quiet corner booth and that's it. He hasn't been in since he got out of the hospital. He's not sure why. He feels nervous or something and he's up against it again, a feeling he doesn't recognize. It's new for him. It's like he has something to lose. Or maybe it's already lost and it's the empty space he's feeling. The doubts pile up.

He stops inside the door and looks for his waitress but she's not there. She appears in his mind anyway, soft brown hair tied up loosely, jeans, runners, the cute way she lifts one foot back behind the other when she leans over the bar to call the beer order to the bartender on busy days. She looks good in the logo t-shirt she has to wear. She'll smile and wave him over to her section if he lingers long enough at the door, long enough that she spots him, or she'll pout when she's missed him and discovers him at another server's table. He tips well, so the smile or the pout. It's a nice smile. She always works on Wednesdays – noon to closing - so he's at a loss to explain why she's not working. Maybe she moved on while he was in the hospital? He feels his world off of center again.

Someone calls from the bar, a cheerful male voice, a shadow and an outline in the gloom after the bright sunshine of the afternoon. "Grab a seat anywhere."

But he doesn't feel like a drink anymore. "I'll be back later," he says. "Just checking to see if someone was here."

It's two minutes past three when he gets to the hospital. The woman working the desk at the rehab clinic says, "Deputy Gutterson, your appointment's not for another hour."

"Any chance of getting in early?"

She doesn't even bother shaking her head. "Go have a coffee or something." She flicks him away with a hand.

He huffs but she doesn't look back up at him.

Hospital coffee. He dismisses the idea, wanders the halls looking for a gift shop, hoping for a magazine or maybe a book of Sudoku to pass the time. The next corner he turns drops him into the atrium at the main entrance. He's never been here before, always coming into the hospital through Emergency at the side. He stands and gawks at the activity. The atrium is attempting to be a mall – gift shops, a drug store and a food court. He's amused by it, figures the designers are trying to distract the hospital staff and customers, however briefly, from the real purpose of the building. But the hanging sign in the center that advertises directions to Emergency and Diagnostic Imaging ruin the effect. Still, it serves a purpose. It's a hub – a mass of humanity, a greater variety of people than he normally sees congregated together, more diverse even than the city jail. The hospital is a leveler – rich and poor, old and young, every color and creed kneeling at the medical altar, in supplication before the mercy of doctors and fate. Not even a church can compete. He watches the flow a moment longer, spots a magazine shop and cuts diagonally across the crowd. There's a coffee chain he recognizes nestled in the rows of fast food shops and he gets sidetracked, changes course with hopes for a decent brew. Fifteen minutes in the line-up and he finally has a hot coffee in hand, forgets about the magazine store and wanders over to Emergency with the hope of finding someone from EMS to talk to.

The folks that ride the ambulances all day are always good company, full of stories and especially friendly at Emergency when they're stuck waiting for their customers to be taken off their hands by the hospital staff. He'd be happy to help them with their boredom today. He remembers one incident told to him by a paramedic about a three-hundred pound woman and a three-story walkup. She was laughing while she told it but he's sure it wasn't funny at the time – her and her partner struggling with the load on the stretcher, the big woman demanding they stop on the landing between the first and second floor because they were jostling her too much and she couldn't light her cigarette. Funny in the retelling.

But it's not someone from the job that catches his eye – it's Cecilia Rose. She's a shiny bauble dropped on gray and dirty linoleum, stands out brightly in her pink, darting in and out of the automatic and oversized revolving doors made for hospital gurneys, forcing them to stop when she cuts it too close and trips the sensors. There are a few amused looks aimed her way, as many grumpy ones. Tim watches her a moment and then scans the faces in the waiting area looking for her mother. And there she is, hiding in a row of seats tucked into a corner, hand up covering her face which is bent down far enough to make the hand redundant. He recognizes the pose – domestic abuse shame. Before he can reconsider, he's walked over and is sitting down beside her.

"Don't know if you remember me. I'm Tim Gutterson."

She ignores him.

"Your daughter kicked my ass at a princess matching card game. I think she cheats. Good thing I wasn't playing for money."

The eye she turns his way is puffy, swollen from tears and a fist. At least that's how it looks to him.

"How badly are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, thanks. It was an accident."

"Yeah, right. How badly are you hurt?" He repeats the question hoping for more detail, glances over at Cecilia Rose to make sure she's still in sight. "You need some pain killers, or something more? X-rays? Anything broken?"

The woman shakes her head gently. "I just need some stitches, I think." She surprises him with a show of trust, lifts her hand and displays the gash on her left cheek.

"I know someone who can look after that…without the wait." He touches her arm. "C'mon, before your daughter trips some rich old man who's here for his gout and he sues her for damages."

"I'm fine waiting."

"C'mon."

"No, really, I'm fine."

"I got a friend who's a doctor. She'll fix you up without the wait."

"I'm fine," she says again, but the voice is less sure.

"You know they'll call the police and badger you into filing a complaint."

She surrenders, stands and heads to the entrance. He follows her, rounds up Cecilia Rose on the way.

"Deputy Marshal Gutterson, I should be reporting this. You should be reporting this."

His friend, the doctor, is objecting to his request to help Cecilia's mother off the books. She's right, but he knows that on another moral plain he's right too. He also knows he can wear her down. He can be patient, but she has a waiting room full of patients and no time to argue with him.

"I love it when you call me Deputy Marshal. It's kinda sexy."

"It's meant to remind you of your responsibilities."

"Oh, well, that's not so sexy." He pulls out his marshal's badge. "I'm not a cop. See that? US Marshals Service." He runs his finger across the title.

"You love reminding people of that."

He smiles as best he can. "C'mon Em, help me out." He waves a hand behind him. "Help her out. She's scared and…"

"She's scared all right, and should report whoever did that to her and…"

"And so," he rolls his hand, "I'm trying to gain her trust. Maybe next time she'll feel safe enough to do the right thing and file that report. I can't force her to do it."

He raises his eyebrows, begs silently now. All this hushed arguing across the counter is a show of propriety by the doctor, and meaningless up against the antics of Cecilia Rose. The little girl is currently skipping happily back and forth in front of the large saltwater fish tank that runs the length of one wall of the waiting room and the doctor's eyes are following her, already smitten. She sighs, her face soft; it hardens again.

"God, why was I the unlucky intern on duty that night when you and Raylan brought that guy in bleeding?"

He's leaning forward on the counter, elbows around the bottle of hand sanitizer, fingers clasped like he's praying for something, and in a way he is. "I told you not to date him."

"No, you didn't."

"Maybe I was just thinking it. Or maybe I thought you had more sense. You're a smart girl."

"You try saying no to Raylan Givens."

"It's not a problem for me – I say it at least once a day. Unfortunately though I work with him…for him, sort of. He's my senior, so it's my job to say yes…most of the time."

She moves her eyes back to his face and he holds her look. He knows what she's not saying, what she's never said. Then for some reason, today she decides to say it: "I should've said yes to you, not him."

It doesn't sting, but it's annoying. He straightens and backs up a step but leaves his hands on the counter. "Apparently Raylan can be charming when he wants something. So I've been told."

It clearly doesn't make her feel better to hear that.

He wants out of the conversation and fortunately Cecilia picks that moment to run up behind him and swat his leg. He looks down, pretends to be grumpy with her and says, "What do you want?"

"I like the blue one."

"Show me."

He waves her to the tank and she runs ahead of him, excited, might as well have him by the sleeve tugging him across the room the pull she has is that strong. He looks back at his friend, Emily, as he obeys the princess's summons. He knows he's won. Emily is watching cornrows and pink baubles. She frowns, then walks around the counter and past the paying clients and sets a hand gently on Cecilia's mother's shoulder.

"Come on in," she says, a solicitous arm moving to corral the wounded into her office.

He's taken the girls for dinner across the street from the medical offices. Cecilia eats half a grilled cheese sandwich and then falls asleep on the booth's bench, a long enough nap to get over being drowsy. Then she's awake and bored with her food. He pays the bill and follows them outside and flags down a cab. The car pulls up to the curb and he opens the back door.

"Where do you live?"

"Just off North Broadway, near Loudon." She says it for the driver.

"That's the same direction as the courthouse," says Tim. "We can share the ride." He's not going back to work but he doesn't feel right leaving her here. He wants to see her and Cecilia safely home.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"You afraid of another round if he sees you with me?"

"I am not afraid." She denies it, frantic, a harsh whisper for his ears only. "It's the only time this has ever happened."

Evelyn – he knows her name now – is trying to stuff her daughter into the back seat of the cab, holds the door open with her hip to brace it against a wind that has picked up this evening and is blowing through Lexington on its way to Oklahoma, promising a hard rain later. Cecilia Rose, as small as she is, doesn't seem to fit into the opening. She's occupying too much space with her random movements.

Tim leans in to help, takes the opportunity to whisper. "I know that's not true. Don't keep up the lie thinking I need to hear it. I get my fill of lies at work."

"What do you want?" says Evelyn.

He pulls out a card and a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbles his personal number on the back. "I want to know that you and Cecilia Rose are all right." He puts the card upside-down in her hand and taps the ink. "Call me."

"Call you?"

"If you need anything."

"What would I need from you?" Evelyn is flustered now and trying to take back control of her life using anger and a haughty tone.

"Nothing," he says and then for Cecilia Rose, "Take care of your mom. And no more cheating at cards."

Indignation from the back seat. "I don't cheat."

"Tell it to the judge, little miss."

He hardly has to work to close the car door. The wind does the job for him and the cab takes them down the street. He stands for a minute watching it until it's out of sight then gets his bearings and realizes that he's not far from Rachel's apartment and in need of a drink after all. And maybe some company. It starts to rain, hard, and that makes up his mind and he walks her direction, dialing her number as he goes. After he talks to her he remembers his missed rehab appointment and does what stretches he can for his fingers while he navigates the puddles already forming on the sidewalk.

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