I've been struggling with this story, turning it this way and that and I'm still not entirely happy either with the development or the length - 1076, a smidge over the flash limit. It just doesn't want to get any smaller. Oh well, for whatever it's worth. . .
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I always had a great sense of smell, even before. I think that's why I'm picky about soap, especially when I'm shaving. The one thing I've held on to, literally: my own shaving kit. I've had this razor for a decade, maybe longer. Back then I was in my own bathroom every morning. But today, even if this mirror is corroding away at the edges and the cracked sink is about to come right off the wall, I still have a sharp razor and good fresh soap. Any little bit of continuity helps, on days like today.
In that decade I've had to learn to dull my senses, though perhaps it's really about keeping them at a distance. Once, I thought they would be a blessing. Clear sight meant no more glasses. I could hear someone calling my name a block away. But it's only a blessing if you're sensing things that you enjoy. Today my nose tells me that this bathroom has at least three species of mold contending for dominance, and the last resident had some sort of bladder problem. I hear the scritch-scritch of roaches under that baseboard; last night in the pitch dark I watched them make their rounds. I suppose I ought to become more like a dog, curious about all these things but not bothered by them. How ironic would that be.
I've also learned that advertising your heightened abilities is never a good idea; it starts people wondering about you. I need to be that guy who doesn't cause trouble, who nobody gives a second thought to. Of course it never lasts, eventually someone starts to catch on, and then it's time to go. Yesterday the cycle came around again; the landlord was waiting for me after work and I had fifteen minutes to leave my apartment. At least I got my security deposit back. That's the only way I could afford this nasty little room and the bus ticket. But it's a blow, every time. And every time it gets a little bit worse.
I know to arrive at the bus station early, so I can fill out the paperwork. As usual the lady at the booth stops when she sees my ID, leans back from the glass, and motions for her supervisor. He's a big guy, not scared - at least, not showing it - and he calls me inside. They always do that, trained to keep things quiet. He's quick; efficient or nervous, either way I'm glad to be out of there. Her perfume combined with his foot fungus was threatening my ability to retain breakfast. At least in the waiting room there's some air circulation, and the cleansing tang of diesel exhaust.
They've told the driver, I can seem him scanning the rows of plastic seats. Tense, but not afraid like the ticket taker. Believe me, I can tell - those sharp senses, plus years of experience making people uncomfortable.
He looks down at a clipboard. "Umm, Mr. Lupin?" he asks. It's the name I chose when I started this new life, a foolish in-joke that nobody ever gets. "Yes, that's me. I have my card right here." He puts it under the clip, flips through a few sheets. Looks back at my face, curious, still tense.
"Okay, that's all set." He hands back the card. "Ah, you've ridden a cross-country bus before?"
Indeed. I haven't had a car for years, even counting the derelict SUV where I spent a winter. Other travel options are too expensive, or prohibited. I smile, remembering as always to keep my lips closed, and he seems to relax a little. "I'm used to the arrangements. I have some food for the trip, and just this one suitcase." He nods. Something flickers across his face, but it disappears again. "We'll be boarding in about twenty minutes, come up at the end if you don't mind."
Now, that's unusual. Every other driver has wanted me early, to get situated before the passengers. They're required by law to inform everyone, but they always do it just before pulling out of the station. A little trick so that people will be less likely to object and want another bus. Or refuse to go until I'm kicked off, which has happened too.
They're milling around the door while I hang back and try to avoid attention. No sense making it harder on this guy. As soon as he's finished with them, he motions me over. Still tense, but there's something more too. I can't quite place it with all the noise and pollution.
He gestures towards the open hatch. "Mr. Lupin, I have the middle compartment set up for you." I bend down to look - miraculously, he's given me a real pillow with a couple of blankets. I can't hide my surprise, and for the first time he relaxes a little and half-smiles.
"I wanted to give you this, too, if it's okay." There's a scrap of paper in his hand, with a name and address. "That's my little brother, he's in Portland, and he, umm, knows where the clinic is, and all." Aha, there's the missing piece.
I reply, still somewhat shocked, "Thank you, for the bedding, and for putting me in touch. I'll look him up as soon as I get there." He nods, but I can tell there's something else. He looks right at me, now. "I was hoping. . . you seem to really have this under control, I mean, not just the symptoms, but how you handle yourself. Bobby, he's only had it for a year, and it's been a hard time. Could you, maybe, talk to him?"
First year. That brings up a lot of ugly memories, but after a second's hesitation I have myself together. "Thanks for the compliment, and I'll do whatever I can to help. It's been a long time for me, maybe he can learn from some of my mistakes."
He shakes my hand - miracle number two - and I climb into the LTC. Officially the letters stand for Lycanthrope Transport Compartment; everyone calls it the Little Tin Cage. As the outside door closes, the driver glances at me again. I can see that he's feeling worse about this than I am, and that's another first for today. Settling back on the pillow, I look up at the aluminum roof and wonder. Maybe this time, starting over won't be quite so bad.
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