Note: Jack Kerouac's On the Road wasn't published until 1957, so I've taken some liberties with the timeline in this chapter.

Hawkeye dropped into the chair he'd pulled by BJ's bedside, studying the sandy-haired man as he slept. This marked the first night BJ had gone more than four hours without a nightmare, and Hawkeye was relieved for both of their sakes.

BJ's color had improved; the man's skin was still pale but no longer sallow. The bruising around his eye had faded to greens and browns, but the eye itself was still a bit swollen. Hawkeye vowed to keep a closer watch on it, maybe get BJ looked at by a specialist if the eye didn't improve soon.

One moan from the Californian had Hawkeye's rapt attention. "How're you feeling today?"

BJ rolled back and forth with a grunt, a hand on his sore rib. "How do you think I'm feeling?" he crabbed. He sat up and rubbed his good eye before gingerly touching the swollen one. "Like I was run over by a bus."

"That's an improvement over yesterday's train," Hawkeye quipped. He watched BJ blink and squint against the incoming sunlight. "Your eye still bothering you?"

BJ glared at him. "I'm fine, Hawk. Don't you have a job to get to? Regular patients to see?"

"Took a few days off to visit with an old friend." Hawkeye walked to the window and opened it wide.

"And what a mistake that turned out to be," BJ replied, a bitter undercurrent to his words. "I've heard that guy can be real jerk, especially when he's running on copious amounts of alcohol and no sleep."

Hawkeye raised his eyebrows and fixed BJ with an incredulous look. "Don't forget the amphetamines."

At BJ's wide-eyed expression, Hawkeye added, "Just so you know, your supply was confiscated while you were out cold. Took care of your supplier, too. I put your prescription pad under lock and key."

BJ looked away, posture stiff and tense. He flexed his hands like he was forcing himself not to make fists. "You went through my jacket?" he questioned, voice tight.

Hawkeye stared back at him. "I was worried sick, Beej! You could have died!"

"But I didn't." BJ looked up, the very picture of tightly controlled anger. "It's bad enough you took my keys! You had no right touching my jacket!"

"I had no right? I had no right?!" Hawkeye leapt to his feet and paced around the guest bedroom in his bathrobe, gesturing wildly. "You went on an epic bender to rival Kerouac's and collapsed on my front porch!" Hawkeye pointed at the other man. "You were so out of it that you begged me to put you out of your misery. You heard thunder and hid in the closet because you thought we were being shelled! You threw a salad at me because you said I was feeding you a bowl of fly larvae. Don't you dare act like this is no big deal."

"Hawk, I'm sorry. But it's over now and it won't happen again."

"Don't give me that! You need help, BJ. Psychiatric help. Sidney's coming out here in a few days."

BJ bristled. "You told Sidney?" His voice rose half an octave on the psychiatrist's name. "Hawkeye, that's . . . it's none of his business! I'm not consenting to treatment. I'm fine now."

"You are not fine." Hawkeye gave a bitter chuckle. "You are so far from fine you can't even see a shadow of fine on the horizon! BJ, your body may be better, but your mind definitely isn't! You haven't dealt with any of this. Whatever sent you running from California is still waiting for you back in Mill Valley. You can't just sweep everything under the rug and act like nothing happened! That's only going to make things worse. Trust me, I've been there. And I don't want to see you get any worse. You scared the hell out of me."

"Not my intent," BJ countered with a tense smile, trying for light and falling far short. "I was hoping to initiate you into my doctors-only biker gang." When that failed to elicit even a small smile, BJ sighed and added, "I'm not trying to check out on you, Hawk."

"Could have fooled me. Beej, you know better! We saw boys in post-op who'd gotten addicted to morphine or worse during their recovery. They had no choice when they started using because of their injuries. But you were writing yourself prescriptions! God only knows what else you've been taking." Hawkeye fixed BJ with one of his self-righteous, blue-eyed stares. "What in the hell were you thinking?"

BJ squirmed under the scrutiny, breathing heavily. Hawkeye could see a tic in his jaw from grinding his teeth. "What is this, twenty questions?" His friend's hands curled into fists, even as his voice remained deceptively light. "Can't a man get up and use the bathroom in the morning without being interrogated first?"

Hawkeye stood with a sigh. "Yeah, sure. I'll . . . I'll start making us pancakes."

"If you spoil me like that, I might never leave," BJ snarked.

Hawkeye walked out of the room without a reply.