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“Hope these will do, my man,” Tom said as he walked into Miles’ hospital room. “We keep some clothes in stock, donated from a local retail store, for cases like yours. You’d be surprised how many we got through, actually.”

“Lots of Traumatic Brain Injury victims?” Miles wondered. There was a lot wonder about, but he was unsure why he picked that particular morbid topic.

“About half of them, the others don’t have folks to bring them new clothes to leave the hospital Or their homeless. Or all three, for that matter. Anyway, I also brought you the remainder of your personal items that survived your accident. Of course, the police have gone through all of it already and they said they didn’t need to keep anything more for evidence.”

“Cool, cool,” Miles said, his voice subdued as he inspected the contents through the clear plastic bag - a pair of bent sunglasses, a fleece hat and matching pair of gloves still speckled with what must have been blood. There was also a wallet, a set of keys and a flip phone broken in half and a pocket knife.

“You know, I heard the police officers talking when they were here a few weeks ago. Apparently you have pretty nice digs downtown. In some high rise or some shit.”

“Yeah, they mentioned something like that to me too.” 

“Yeah, so that should be cool. Anyway, here's your paperwork. I’ll give you some privacy to get dressed and I’ll be back in a couple minutes, alright?”

Miles pulled on the pair of docker khaki pants and hated them almost immediately. The waist was high and the legs were too short, but they fit- sort of. The shirt was long sleeved salmon-polo. Thankfully, the ensemble also came with a decent looking black puffer jacket, which seemed fairly durably made and had a decent number of pockets. 

He left the bloody hat and gloves in the bag and stuffed it into one pocket. Hopefully he’d have a washing machine at his apartment. Hopefully, he’d also remember how to use the damn thing. He looked through the wallet. There were no pictures aside from his own on the driver’s license. He studied it. The man in the picture matched the image he saw in the mirror, but he wore a hard, feral expression that scared him. Looking through the rest of the wallet, there was a loyalty card for a grocery store, a business card for a local jeweler, a credit card in his name and $150 in cash. He tried to rack his brain for how much food and a taxi ride would cost, but his mind, once again, drew an enormous, frustrating blank. 

He studied the pocket knife. It appeared worn and at first glance he didn’t see the initials engraved in the side. It was hard to make out, but he was reasonably sure the letters were M.Z.C. He checked his license again, hoping to clear up the mystery of the ‘Z’, but no middle name was listed. He clipped the knife to his pocket.

He was picking up the ring of keys when Tom returned. “Are you ready, my man?” he asked. 

“Yeah, let me just, uh,” he looked at the papers and held out his open palms, realizing he didn’t have a pen to sign them. Worse, he’d have to sign the papers in front of Tom. He wondered, for the fourteenth time in the last thirty minutes, what the hell was wrong with him that he was imagining an oozing bite mark in his wrist. Unless, the doctor had seen the marks and chosen to ignore them? It just didn’t make any sense. He was either going out of his mind or...well, he supposed, that was the only explanation. He wasn’t sure if he was hoping Tom would notice or not.

“Oh, right, sorry about that man. Here you go,” he handed a weighty ball-point to Miles when he saw that he had nothing to sign the paperwork with. Uncomfortably, Miles tried his best to write ‘Miles Clark’ what felt like forty-two times. By the end, his hand shook with discomfort. The wounds on his wrist began to ooze a bit and shifted so that the long sleeve of his shirt and jacket hid the drops of blood. He held out the papers to Tom, who took them, but when he tried to give the pen pack, the nurse just held out his hand and shook his head. 

“Nah, man. Don’t worry about it. I stole that from Dr. T’s desk anyway. Consider it a parting gift. It’s gonna be pretty weird not having you around, man.”

“Thanks, Tom, for everything.” Miles took a deep breath to control the pain in his wrist and offered his hand to the man, who responded with a whole hearted shake that had Miles breaking out a cold sweat. 

“Dude. That is a gnarly wound. I can’t believe Dr. T didn’t wrap that up before she left. How the hell did you get that, anyway?”

“Oh, this?” Miles held his arm up, “You can see this?”

Tom raised one perfect blonde eyebrow at him, “Yeah, man. Of course I can see that. Here, let me get that taken care of before you go.” Miles was shocked and confused. How was it that Dr. Temple had seen nothing of his injured wrist, but Tom acted like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It certainly felt real enough. The prickly feeling of the idea that there was something just a little too vivid in his dreams took over his thoughts. 

Thankfully, Tom became engrossed in the task of cleaning and applying fresh bandages to Miles' wound that he forgot to ask any more questions. When the forms were signed, he’d taken one last glance at the hospital room that had been his , Miles followed Tom to the entrance of the hospital, which deposited him right out into a very busy street. He stood at the doors, feeling completely lost and unsure of everything. Tom’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and his heart jumped at the shock. 

“Let me get you started,” he said, motioning Miles to move to the side of the automatic doors and out of the way of traffic. “Alright, what’s your address?” He pulled out his phone and together, they hunched over the small screen. “It looks like you’re only a few blocks here. You could actually walk, if you wanted,” he said.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got it. Worst case, I’ll flag down a taxi or ask someone, he said.” 

“That’s the spirit, man. You know where to find us if you need anything, or if you remember anything.”

“Yeah,” Miles said and he took a step back, “That’s what Dr. Temple said too. I appreciate the concern.” The curiosity of his medical staff was touching at first. Now, it was just sounding a little invasive. “Thanks again, hang loose, Tom.” 

Bolstered with the desire to just get the hell out of the place, Miles pulled in a gallon of warm, hospital grade air and walked outside into the cold freedom. 

He followed the path Tom had showed him on his phone and it didn’t take long before he was standing before an elegant, brick building that matched the address on his license. Outside, a doorman came out from brass-framed glass doors and held them open for him. Miles could tell he must have been a very tall man in his day, but now his hunched shoulders brought him down to around Mile’s height. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Clark,” the man smiled broadly. He was missing a few teeth, but it didn’t make him seem any less friendly, the man’s words were marbled and he spoke with a loose jaw that moved around like the hinges that held it on were. 

“Thank you, um, sir” he was relieved that he was clearly in the right place, but wished he could place the face of the man who so clearly recognized him.

“Name’s Bernard, sir,” the tall man bowed his head and then met his eyes again. The smile was gone from his mouth, but not from his eyes.

“Bernard. Sure, sure.” Miles hesitated, unsure of the level of familiarity he was supposed to have with the man. 

Bernard leaned in close and looked to both sides before conspiratorially whispering, “you call me Bernie. I pretend I don’t like it. It keeps up pretences. You know how it is.”

“Yeah,” Miles said, trying to catch up to the shift in the man’s demeanor, “I know how it is, I guess.” 

“I heard about the accident, Mr. Clark. Let me know if I can help with anything. You want to know about the best hotdogs in the city, I’m your guy. You need me to let some late night guests in,” he winked hard and deliberately at that and went on, “you just call down to me. There’s button upstairs, right next to the light switch. Goes straight to me.” 

“Thank you, Bernie. That’s really...Did I have a lot of guests, you know, before?” The police had insisted that nobody had come forward who knew him and that even the other tenants in the complex had not known him well. Surely, they’d spoken to this Bernie character. 

“Nah, you always said you were a one woman man, but I never saw you bring anyone home. Say, the police ever get ahold of her for you? They said they was having a hard time finding any family for you when they was here a few weeks ago.” 

“No, they didn’t. I, um, I have no memory of a woman,” he shook his head, trying to jostle out an image or memory. 

“That’s a shame. You told me you blew it with her, said she refused to speak to you because you moved here. I don’t know, Mr. Clark. I wish I knew more.

“No, Bernie, that’s okay. More than helpful, actually. Thanks,” he looked down at the address on his license plate once again. His address had read 2414, which he assumed meant he was on the fourteenth floor, but figured he Bernie would know for sure.

“Bernie, I’m on the, uh…” he pointed one thumb toward the elevators. 

“Twenty Fourth floor, Mr. Clark, the penthouse. Make sure to use your key next the button,” 

“Right. Thanks again, Bernie,” he said as he walked into the red-velvet carpeted elevator and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor. Miles pulled out his key ring. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it yet, but he could see now that there were five keys on it, but only one looked like the circular match to the elevator keyhole right next to the number marked ‘24.’ 

“Right, thanks again, Bernie.”

“Goodnight, sir,” he nodded solemnly and silently padded back to his position at the front doors of the apartment building. 

This time, Miles twisted the key and when he pushed the button, the doors closed with a charming ‘ding’ and he was on his way up. 

The elevator opened, revealing a small, windowless entry way and straight ahead, a shining, mahogany door several feet in front of him. He studied the other keys in the privacy of the small hallway. Other than the elevator key, there was one common looking brass key with a square top similar to the one the janitors used at the hospital to open the closets, a very small key with a rounded top, a simple, yet elegant key with an ornate silver handle, well tarnished, and finally a larger, silver key with a black, plastic top with some sort of logo etched into it. 

He went for the first, and was happy to hear the lock turning. As he opened the door, he noticed a panel of switches to his right, along with a button for an intercom, just as Bernie had said. He turned them all on, using his elbow to avoid the pain in his wrist. 

His apartment, the place he was supposed to call home, stretched awkwardly before him. A wall of windows showed a view of the grey city below them, only a few other buildings rose close to the height of his apartment building, but they didn’t obstruct the view. Beyond the buildings, he saw the bay - wide and misty. The view was beautiful. He just wished, once again, for some familiarity in the space.

He moved around the rest of the apartment, unsure of what he was looking for, exactly. The apartment was less than tidy, but he wasn’t sure if that was due to his own habits or because the police had come and rifled through everything. Through, his things, he thought, all of this was his. 

The apartment had an extra bedroom set up like an office. Three monitors spread over a large black desk. A bulletin board held a few papers, but nothing looked particularly interesting. A few bills were tacked up together, a scenic photograph that looked like it had been taken at the top of some sort of hill or cliff and a few handwritten notes. The contents didn’t have a lot of meaning for Miles. He was more curious about the handwriting. Some of the notes seemed to be written by a different hand. Not his own, scratchy penshmenship, but someone who wrote neatly and evenly, interesting. 

Back in the open living and kitchen areas, he looked through some cupboards, relieved past-Miles had had enough sense to have canned food on hand. He peeled off the metal lid of a pre-made beef stew and tossed into the microwave for the prescribed time. While it heated, he walked through his master bedroom - all blues and greys. He had an en suite bathroom which only had men’s toiletries, further indicating he didn’t have much, or any, female company. He settled on the couch and, although it was only a little after noon, he found that his eyelids seemed to close of their own accord as he drifted into his subconscious.

He was standing before them again, but this time he was slightly better dressed for the occasion. The woman and her wolf carried a burden of snow over their shoulders and lay huddled together. Their eyes were closed and a peculiar feeling of devastation began to run, like a thousand streams, into his chest, at the thought that they might be dead. 

“No!” he shouted as he fell to his knees. The woman’s lime green eyes cracked open and the thin layer of ice around her face cracked, but then froze again. He exhaled in relief and reached out to wipe away the tiny crystals already accruing on her lashes. “God, you’re cold,” he exclaimed, bringing his hands over her frigid cheeks. 

Vapor exploded out of her mouth and then she spoke. “You’re back?” she asked, the movement brows crinkled noisily as ice flew off of her face with each movement. Miles moved to wipe her forehead, but a menacing growl vibrated up his arm. He pulled back, his wrist suddenly feeling like it was on fire. “He’s very protective,” she whispered. “Destroyer, it’s him. It’s Milo. He’s back.” 

Miles frowned down at the white wolf, who bared his fangs and snapped at him. Drool gathered and began to drip from his gleaming teeth.

“I need more answers.” 

“We’re too cold,” she said pitifully.

“Can I...let me warm you up?” the question directed at the wolf, who snorted at him and got about as close to rolling his eyes as he imagined a wolf could get.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice was small and hollow.

“Come here,” he said. He placed one tentative hand on her elbow, his hand slid through a thin layer of snow and he tugged gently at the dark purple velvet and slowly drew her into his arms. In spite of the fact that Miles was literally in a dream, it still felt surreal to him. Her body truly felt cold as he tucked the heavy hood back so that he could tuck her head under his chin. Her frigid fingers slid slowly into his jacket. “You feel like a real woman,” he said to her. 

“I am real, Milo. I am very, very real.” 

“No, you’re in my dream. You’re just a woman I made up,” the wolf growled low and deep and the throbbing in his wrist intensified. 

“What more must Destroyer and I have to do to convince you that we are real?”

“Destroyer? What the hell kind of name is ‘destroyer’? That has got to be something I made up,” he argued, even as he readjusted her so that he pulled her coat back a little, revealing a thick embroidered bodice and pushed up breasts that, even when blue with cold, pulled at his attention. He licked his lips. Because of the cold. 

“Destroyer is his name, just as Milo is your name.”

“Yeah, okay. Close enough, but what about you? You have a name?” he challenged.

“Of course I have a name,” she looked up at him, her green eyes now seemed darker in hue. Less light and more lush and alive. He wondered if it was because of her apparent frustration with him or because she was warmer, that caused the shift in color. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t real. He almost scoffed at himself. 

“My name is Althea,” she said. There was color in her cheeks and a pinkness to her mouth. He couldn’t help but think about how small she was in his arms, the top of her head barely came up to his shoulder. Then the words she’d spoken registered.

“Ah, now I get it,” he said. “Althea, meaning ‘healer’ just like his name,” he nodded toward the wolf, “is destroyer. You’re like two sides of my psyche.”

Althea groaned in frustration and pulled away from him. She closed her cloak tight around her, hiding her breasts from sight. “And does your name mean, Milo?” she said. 

Miles snapped awake. “Miles,” he frowned at himself. “Miles in Greek means destroyer.”