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“Or do you want to stay after all?”

That got Tristan moving, and he abruptly stood up.

“You’ll find my number here as well,” Dr. Snider said, handing him the prescription and medication. “Call me anytime if you need to talk.”

Without a word, Tristan accepted everything, nodded, and folded the paper. “I guess I’ll first have to get a new phone.”

Dr. Snider laughed. “Do that. Anyway, I wish you all the best for the future.”

As Tristan left the consultation room and stepped into the corridor, he suddenly felt dizzy. A thick lump lodged in his throat that he couldn’t swallow, and his hand trembled as he gripped the piece of paper. The short bursts of panic had become less in the last few days, so he tried to ignore this one as best as he could and returned to his room.

When he arrived at the psychiatric hospital, he had hardly anything with him. Aside from himself, the only items salvaged from the car wreck were a keychain, a wallet, and a small notebook, which he had kept in his back pockets. His phone was broken, and of the clothing not cut by the paramedics, he was left with only a denim jacket and his sneakers. For almost three weeks now, he had been walking around in clothes from the shelter—a simple pair of jeans and a black shirt.

He folded the prescription neatly until it fit into his notebook and tucked it into his right back pocket. Next, he slipped the wallet into his left pocket and slid the key into his jacket.

Walking toward the exit felt strange. As he turned the corner and spotted José, his breath caught for a moment. With his red, sleeveless shirt, short-cropped hair, and fully tattooed arms, the drummer looked completely out of place in the waiting room. He was focused on typing something on his phone when he glanced up, and their eyes met. A grin spread across his sun-bronzed face as he jumped up from his chair and hugged him tightly.

“Good to see you,” José whispered into his ear.

Tristan hesitantly wrapped his arms around him. Just hearing his Spanish accent again gave him a good feeling. José was always dependable.

The native Venezuelan, who had lived in the States since childhood, stepped back and inspected him from head to toe. “Damn, have you grown? I didn’t remember you being so tall.”

Tristan forced a smile and patted his buddy on the shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you for not making me wait any longer.” With a nod, he gestured toward Tristan’s bandaged arm. “What’s this?”

“A cut,” he replied curtly. When the airbag deployed, a shard of metal slashed his forearm in half.

José nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, then let’s get out of here.”

As they left the clinic together, Tristan followed him across the parking lot, relieved to take a seat in an air-conditioned car. They sat in silence for a while, Tristan gazing out the window at his old hometown as it whizzed by, while José focused on the traffic.

Now that Tristan was about to leave once more, he wondered how reckless he had been to come back here. But it was necessary. He had no other choice. His parents were here. Even though Milo had been buried in Los Angeles, he wanted to return their pendant.

“We’re all meeting at the Redwood tonight,” José said as he turned on the blinker and merged onto the freeway. “Carol thought a neutral place like a bar would probably be better than her office.”

“The Redwood?” Tristan furrowed his brow in disbelief. “Not exactly neutral.”

“I know. Maybe she thought it was better to hide among sharks than to try to swim away from them.”

“Or she thought she wouldn’t have to get back into the car and could walk there.”

José laughed. “That sounds more like her.”

A heaviness settled over Tristan, and he felt incredibly tired. Surely, José wouldn’t mind if he took a quick nap. But a thought jolted him out of his daze.

“How’s Leaf?”

José fell silent, staring intently at the road.

“Is he okay?”

“We’ll probably find out soon.” José muttered and stepped on the gas.

As the expanse of the desert opened up before them, Tristan breathed a sigh of relief.

Survived Las Vegas once again.