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The Driver arrives in Winter, WI in the early days of spring. Even so, the wide landscape is still covered in a powdered sugar dusting of snow. He blinks his tired eyes out over the quickly blurring back roads, aimlessly making turns and breaking at rusting old stop signs. He was probably a safe distance away five states ago, but he’s driven until he can’t any longer. The rims of his eyes crust and stick together when he blinks; each flutter of his eyes becomes longer and longer as he fights sleep.
He finds an alcove next to a moderately sized body of water to stop at. It’s twilight and the sky has gone all purple and frigid. The thicket of trees is dark and provides the perfect cover when he shuts the Chevelle’s headlights off. Being too cold for a visit to the lake, anyone who comes out here and finds him would be looking for him.
He climbs into his backseat carefully, the stitches on his abdomen pulling hot and taut as he moves. Something feels decidedly not right with them. His stomach churns and his head spins. But he supposes this is as good a place to curl up and die as any.
Once the engine is cut, the night chill is quick to encroach into the interior of the cab. He wraps his arms tight around himself but his thin jacket is no match for the northern midwest nip. His wound zings in protest as he adjusts and scrunches his legs up to fit across the bench seat.
He thinks of Irene and Benicio and the warm couch in front of the television. The smell of a hot meal cooking in the oven. The sound of Benicio’s voice as he jabbers over their shared dinner. How easy it would be to fall asleep there in Irene’s arms in that apartment.
Nothing is ever easy.
~
“What are you bringing?” Margo’s voice is tinny and distant over the receiver as she speaks to Lars. She must have her speakerphone on. That would also explain the chopping noises that intermittently overtake her voice altogether.
“What should I bring?” Lars tucks his new cellphone between his jaw and shoulder as he ducks down to peer into Karin and Gus’ fridge. It’s overstuffed, as always. Options abound, which is a change of pace to Lars’ canned soup habits. “I have… everything.”
Margo laughs, a loud clatter ringing over the line as she no doubt drops her kitchen knife to rest her hands on her hips in exasperation. After a year of spending nearly every day together, Lars knows his friend like the back of his hand. He can see in his mind the eye roll meant for him that she shoots at her phone.
“What do you feel like eating?”
Lars is silent for a few beats, staring at the sundry of ingredients his sister-in-law keeps stocked. Some of the fruit he knows to reserve for baby Elinor’s homemade purees and juices. But that still leaves half the fridge to choose from! Despite it being an entire year since Bianca died and a little less since his niece was born, he’s still settling into being… decisive. Everyday is a new lesson in balance - equal parts creature comfort and new experiences. No more staring at the wall of the garage to pass the time. No. He goes to office parties and bowling and picnics and is even a member of a book club now. All with his blanket wrapped around him and a good two feet radius between him and whoever isn’t Margo, Gus, or Karin.
It’s good. It’s great.
It’s exhausting.
Sometimes he malfunctions and can’t even decide what sort of food to bring on a picnic with his best friend. He thinks about stuffing two cans of Campbell’s into his lunchbag and calling it a day, but he also can’t stand that little wrinkle that creases the center of Margo’s forehead when she’s disappointed but trying to be understanding. His eyes land on the eggs on the top shelf. Then the condiments in the door slot.
“Egg salad,” he concedes more to himself than Margo, squeezing his phone harder with his jaw as he reaches in and takes out his ingredients. “Sandwiches.”
“Sounds delicious, Lars,” Margo encourages, the chopping noises beginning anew. Knowing her, she’ll show up with a whole smorgasbord of entrees and sides to choose from. “Can you toast my bread?”
“Okay,” he affirms, already pressing the lever down on the loaded toaster. “You sure it won’t be too cold for you?”
“I should be asking you the same thing, snow hater.”
“It’ll be nice and quiet.”
“It will.”
~
They take Lars’ car because he thinks it’s gentlemanly to drive Margo around. Another thing she rolls her eyes at but indulges him in. Sometimes Lars is Lars and there’s no arguing with him. Driving her around and chopping her wood for the winter are just a couple of examples.
He allows her to turn on the radio as long he keeps it at a manageable low volume. Today she’s picked out some classic rock station that Lars finds he genuinely enjoys. Soft guitars and croony voices whisper from under the hum of the heater. It makes him feel wistful, but in a good way. Like the ache of a healing bruise.
Oh, sweet darlin’, you get the best of my love…
He hasn’t had Bianca around for a whole year and Margo asked him to just-be-friends for just under that. He knows it’s all for the best, but something that he’s learned about himself is that he is deeply romantic. Even though he doesn’t completely understand it. It’s an enigmatic feeling to know what he wants but not know what any of it means.
But every morning. I wake up and worry. What’s gonna happen today?
His breath catches at the lyrics, moved so deeply that a small lump forms in his throat. He’ll have to remember these lyrics so he can look them up on Gus’ computer later. He’ll buy the album and listen to it until he wears a groove in the disc.
“Whose car is that?” Margo’s inquisitive voice cuts over the song as they pull into the alcove leading to the lake.
He looks further down the dirt road to where the gravel lot turns to woods and squints. Sure enough, there’s an old style two-door vehicle sitting amongst the branches. It’s long, light blue, and unfamiliar. He can’t recall anyone in their town having driven something like it.
“Who could that possibly be?” Margo looks over at him as he parks, confusion creasing the skin around her eyes. No one ever just visits the town of Winter. She looks equal parts puzzled and panicked, as if they’ve come upon a UFO landing.
“Uh, I… I don’t know.”
The car looks empty from across the lot. The engine is turned off. Maybe it’s someone out here illegally hunting? But it doesn’t look like the type of vehicle equipped to haul animal carcasses. It’s innocent enough - an empty car at a public lake - but something about it makes Lars feel on edge.
“We should go check it out,” Margo says, already opening her door and stepping out.
“Margo!” Lars tries not to raise his voice too loud, feeling as though they are definitively not alone in this lot right now, but Margo is circling around to the front of his car and waiting for him to follow. He gets out too. “We should just leave it. Nosy.”
“Maybe we should call the sheriff’s office instead.”
“The sheriff?” He scoffs quietly, tucking his hands into his coat pockets and looking over at the mysterious vehicle again. Getting the authorities involved seems extreme, but he has an awful feeling that the car isn’t actually as empty as it appears. Like there’s a body stuffed in the trunk or something. “No, no.”
“Okay, then I’m going to look,” Margo insists, her snow boots rumbling on the frozen gravel as she turns heel and begins to make her way to the car. She doesn’t wait to see if Lars will follow - she knows he will, anyway.
He hesitates a moment, but he does follow. Her parka hood flops off her head and down around her shoulders as her brisk gate generates a little bit of air. Her mousy hair bounces as she confidently cups her hands together against the window to peek in the front seat before leaning forward, spine bowing deeper, to get a better look in the backseat. She goes stark still.
Lars breaks into a light jog to catch up, not liking the way her back shoots ramrod straight.
“Lars!” She whips around to look at him, an alarmed expression widening her pale eyes. Her small mouth opens and closes a couple of times in succession, like a suffocating fish. “There’s somebody in here.”
Lars steps around her and peers into the backseat, sure enough there’s a figure scrunched up tight in the backseat. It appears to be a young man, rail thin and inappropriately dressed for the weather. Lars’ eyes travel down the unmoving frame - the thin, champagne-silver jacket, the black pants, the socked feet. The rusty-red splotches all down the front of him.
“He’s bleeding,” Lars gasps, mindlessly bringing his hand up to knock on the window.
“We should really call the sheriff now,” Margo whispers, stepping back as Lars continues to knock.
“He’s hurt.” Lars knocks harder on the window, near pounding before the young man’s eyes pop open. So sudden and quick, that Lars recoils and expects the man to pop up and out to attack him, but he doesn’t.
The strangers’ ashen face immediately crumples in on itself in agony, his hands uncurling from his chest to move down and clutch at his stomach. The source of all the clotted, dried blood. Lars’ heart rises to his throat, stuck between the urge to smash in the window to help and to hightail it the opposite way. He bangs on the window, trying to get the stranger to make eye contact with him.
“Call 911,” he instructs Margo hurriedly, eyes not leaving the other man as his handsome but drawn features slacken under the pain. “Hurry, please.”
The gravel crunches frantically as Margo runs back to Lars’ car to retrieve one of their phones. Meanwhile, the stranger finally drowsily blinks up to meet Lars’ harried gaze. He’s handsome, even in his suffering. Features shadowed, but also fine and pretty. His blond hair sticks up from his head like a jagged halo and his blue eyes fill with tears as he tries to sit up but is unable to. He falls back down against the backseat with a muted thunk.
Okay, well. Lars has never been put in the position of saving someone's life before. He’s babysat his niece numerous times, but spoonfeeding sweet potato puree into a babbling baby’s mouth is nowhere near as terrifying as the gore in front of him. He feels panicked yet resolute, a strange and new feeling. He knows he has to act quick for this man’s sake.
He looks around himself, scanning the ground for a good sized rock. Once he’s found one and wraps his panic-cold fingers around it, it’s mindless to bring it down on the driver’s side window again and again until it shatters. The stranger, his hands now limp on his belly, barely reacts as Lars breaks his car. His glassy, half-lidded eyes barely keep up with Lars’ movements as he jabs his arm into the broken window to press the unlock button and wrench the door open.
“You’re hurt,” Lars calls to the stranger dumbly as he searches for the lever to fold the seat forward.
The stranger doesn’t reply, his breath shivering out past his pale lips loudly. He doesn’t move, or at least doesn’t seem able to, as Lars finally tugs the front seat up and crouches in the doorway to get a good look at him. Lars squints at the place where the stranger’s hands have gone limp on his abdomen. He’s wearing expensive looking driver’s gloves.
“Can I, um,” Lars hesitates, surprised suddenly by his own boldness. Maybe it’s the natural reaction to seeing his fellow man in peril. Maybe it’s because seeing this particular man hurting is like seeing a majestic stag shot down. Either way, he reaches forward and brushes the man’s begloved hands out of the way - which flop away like wet noodles - to tug at the zipper of his jacket. “Oh, God.”
The man wears a thin, heather grey t-shirt under his jacket. It’s drenched in new blood and barely conceals an angry, active injury underneath. Lars lifts his eyes to seek the man’s eyes again and he sees that the man is now staring blearily up at the ceiling of the cab, eyes spewing silent tears.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Margo swears as she comes running back up. She crouches over Lars’ back to get a peak at the carnage Lars can’t look away from. “You poor thing. There’s help on the way, okay?”
The man’s chest heaves deeply, he seems unable or too overcome to even speak. He looks back over at them, his quickly purpling mouth moving silently.
“Who did this to you?” Margo leans further over Lars, her head poking all the way into the cab. “Did you have an accident?”
Lars has an awful feeling that this was done to the man in a manner that was not an accident. Like maybe this man is very dangerous. Like maybe he came out here to die quietly and alone, so as to avoid something awful.
“Hold his hand, Lars,” Margo commands from behind him, unable to reach to do so herself. “He’s scared.”
Lars, mindlessly, reaches forward and grabs one of the man’s hands. The chill of his fingers felt even through his leather gloves.
~
Lars hasn’t been in the hospital since Elinor was born and then it had been in an entirely different ward. He hasn’t been in the emergency waiting room since Bianca was brought in by ambulance. Being here makes him feel like there’s ants crawling up and down his hands. He bundles his arms protectively around himself and stares at one spot on the wall opposite of him.
Margo snores softly where she’s slouched low in her chair next to him. They've been waiting at least two hours to hear news of their injured stranger. Their lunch sits wilted and half-frozen in the back of Lars’ car. Not that either of them are particularly hungry after watching that man’s wound being packed by an EMT before he was boarded into the back of the truck.
“Mr. Lindstrom,” Dr. Olsen calls from the mouth of the waiting room. She inclines her head as if she expects him to follow.
After shaking Margo awake, Lars hurries to catch up with Olsen as she brisks down the sanitized smelling hallway. She stops them outside the door of one of the rooms and looks sternly between the two of them.
“What do you know about this gentleman?”
“We just found him,” Margo shrugs, as if she’s talking about picking up a stray puppy.
“Is he going to be alright?” Lars worries his bottom lip between his teeth, remembering how the man had so silently cried and cried. Dangerous men didn’t cry, right?
“He has a bad infection,” Dr. Olsen supplies solemnly. “It’s a good thing you found him when you did.”
Lars shudders to picture the handsome stranger curled up and left to die alone in the park. He hates the idea of dying, period.
“Can we see him?” Lars looks to the door and back to Dr. Olsen, trying to convey his impatience without seeming too rude. Gus has told him he needs to work on his social awareness and how his tone of voice makes others feel.
“He may still be sleeping,” Dr. Olsen says softly, putting a hand on the door. “We had to give him painkillers to clean and restitch his abdominal wound. It looks like he’d been stabbed and crudely stitched up… maybe a few days ago. It’s hard to tell. He has a fever too.”
A stab wound? Fear shoots from the pit of Lars’ stomach and up into his throat. He suddenly has the urge to grab Margo and make a run for it. But then Dr. Olsen is pushing open the door and revealing the stranger in his hospital bed.
Even shrunken and greyed, he’s still so handsome. The waning afternoon sun pierces through the cracked blinds and outlines him in gold. His hair has been carefully combed back by a nurse and he’s clean in a medical gown.
His eyes are open as they circle his bed. His expression stays blank, but Lars can see the cagey, distrustful way his eyes shoot between each of them. He does seem to recognize them though, his body staying lax and still. They all stare at each other for a few long moments. Lars looks at the two women next to him. Dr. Olsen seems to be studying them while Margo looks equal parts terrified and enchanted.
He looks back and the man’s steel gaze is locked on him.
“Um.” Lars’ voice wobbles and he shuffles his feet. He blinks hard and carefully curls his lips into what he hopes is a “nice” smile. “Well. Uh. My name’s Lars.”
The heart monitor the man is hooked to drones cool and even. Saline drips steady into a line attached to his arm. He doesn’t smile back, but he doesn’t look away. He blinks slowly at Lars, like one of Margo’s cats.
“What’s your name?” Lars tries dumbly. Usually he’s perfectly fine with silence, but the man’s gaze is somewhat stifling.
“My name…” The man’s voice is startlingly soft. More so than Lars’ usual timid tone. It’s almost drowned out by the loud, bustling hallway just outside the door. He blinks a few times, scrunching his brow, as if he’s deciding if wants Lars to know his name. “Driver.”