Someone taps on Waylon's shoulder. He jerks and blinks away grime — and everything exists again. Hard plastic seat underneath him; his revolver, an arm away; and the sun, peaking above the horizon, window tint dulling its glare.
Why? He thinks.
His throat burns, stripped raw by words that stopped coming hours ago. That didn't stop his mouth from trying. Parted, dry lips crackle and every breath stokes molten-red fissures. He swallows. Nothing. No saliva, no air.
The lump in his throat doesn't even move. Stuck there, as dry as his lips. He needs water; he doesn't care.
"Sorry, but excuse me, Waylon." The words come quiet and soft, as if afraid they'll startle a bird.
Waylon lets his hands fall from his head and he looks.
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One of the aids hovers over him, squatting slightly, hands clasped just above her knees. She wears scrubs and a mask, so he can't see her features beyond brown eyes and a pom-pom of tight curls atop her head. "Waylon?" She repeats.
Wrong. How she says his name, how familiar she's treating him. It's wrong. His blood boils; his teeth grind; he rises from his chair. Joints crack, breaking free from their many-hours rest.
More aids work around Gina. They heave the body from bed to gurney, grunting. More rigid and discolored since he last looked.
Anger settles into something cold, creeping through Waylon's veins — through his thoughts. That name... that name belongs to her. And to him. This nurse hasn't earned it; she hasn't earned the right to act so familiar with me. No one has.
The gurney glides between opened double doors and disappear around a bend, Gina atop it. Now, an indent amidst the bed's blankets and pillows is the only hint she was ever here.
He snatches his revolver off the table. Slipping it into his coat, he locks eyes on the aid that addressed him. "Mister Ishii." He says.
A brand; a reminder. He never did deserve Phillip's last name.
She tweaks her head. "Sorry?"
"Mister Ishii. That's what you call me."