Written for the Breakroom Halloween Bingo 2024 using the prompts 'a stranger comes to town', 'amnesia', and 'addiction/withdrawal'.

His lungs burned. It was dark. Wet. Cold. The sound of rustling leaves filled his ears and the hoot of an owl made his already racing heart leap into his throat. There was a dull ache in his head. Did I fall over? It felt like he'd been hit pretty hard. He turned, whining and stumbling on the uneven ground. His feet were bare. They hurt! Twigs, leaves and stones dug into his soles, slowly tearing them to ribbons as he hobbled blindly through the thick maze of trees. The pain was so intense he wasn't sure if they were cut or something worse. They stung so badly he could barely walk, and yet he didn't dare stop. Something told him to keep going. His breaths came in quick gasps, chestnut eyes tearing up, lost in a blind panic. The ground began to slope, going upwards. The man ran until he couldn't stay upright. He gripped thick clumps of grass with cold, shaking hands, crawling and heaving his way to the top of the slope. The top was flat and hard beneath his feet. Kinder than the forest floor. His skin burned. He couldn't walk far. Not like this.

Limping, he stepped further out onto this new flat plain. It wasn't dirt. It was stone. Tarmac? A road! He was on a road, but which way should he go? Was it even safe to be on the road? Why wouldn't it be safe? Is someone looking for me? He was running before, but he wasn't sure why. Where had he come from? Why was he in the forest? His chest ached as he stopped, chestnut eyes wide. What's my name? It was gone. Everything was gone! Terror gripped his chest, leaving him unable to think, unable to see, as he stumbled along the dark road. Where it led wasn't important, so long as it went somewhere.

A distant rumbling reached his ears, rising through the trees. What is that? Whatever it was, it was getting louder. The man whimpered as he limped along, trying to quicken his pace. He didn't feel so good. He was shaky, though that could have been from the pain and cold. Rain still pattered down from above, soaking him through. At least he was wearing a coat. But why no shoes? And why did his feet hurt so much? It was no good. He couldn't remember. The rumble increased, making him clap his hands over his ears. Why was it so fucking loud? Light lit the road behind him, getting brighter and brighter. The man turned, squinting over his shoulder and covering his eyes as a deafening horn sounded.

Something was coming, but he couldn't see what. Just that it was big and fast, with huge glowing headlights. Covering his face, he tensed. Screeching met his ears. The sound of rubber grinding tarmac. The breath left him as he was struck. It was too big to be a car. The solid grate hit him almost the same instant as the truck stopped. His body was sent toppling and rolling across the ground until he skidded to a halt. His head hit the tarmac, heat grazing his cheek. A door slammed, cursing and hurried footsteps following shortly after.

"What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the...Hey, are you alright?" It was a man. Someone with a low, grumbling voice. It wasn't one he recognised, but if he couldn't even remember his own name, how could he be sure of that? Despite his uncertainty, a sense of relief swept through him. The man knelt beside him, the blinding light of the truck framing him like a halo. He squinted at him, barely able to life his heavy head. Everything hurt. His whole body felt heavy and sort of far away, like it wasn't really his. Dark eyes fluttered, dizziness making the world turn. "Shit, did you break anything? Hey!" A warm hand caught the back of his head before it hit the ground.

What the fuck? Hank stared at the unconscious man, blue eyes wide in shock. He was soaked through! Pale and barefoot. There was a bloody graze on his cheek and temple from hitting the ground, but his feet were the most puzzling. He was barefoot; the undersides shredded from apparently running through the forest. They weren't far from town, barely a mile, but from the state of his clothes, it looked more like he'd been stumbling around the forest for a few days. He was certainly thin enough, even through the long coat he was wearing. Despite the lack of shoes, he seemed pretty put together. He was wearing a suit, worn and crumpled as it was. What's a guy like this doing all the way out here? He didn't look like he'd come from a small town like his.

First things first, he couldn't just stay out here kneeling in the middle of the road. Before he moved the man, he needed to make sure he wouldn't disturb any injuries. Feeling the back of his head, he didn't notice any notable cracks or bleeding. He didn't think he'd hit him that hard anyway, thank god! He'd just clipped him with the hood of his truck. It was his own damn fault! What the fuck was he doing in the middle of the road? Hank couldn't work himself up to feeling angry. It looked like he'd been through some shit. He was probably lost and confused.

Since he wasn't too badly injured, Hank carried him to the truck. It struck him, as he hefted him, that he was far too light for a man of his size. He'd thought he looked thin, but actually feeling it had him worried. His body was so light in his arms, and part of that weight was his sodden coat! He must be skin and bone under there! Opening the passenger door, he sat him in the chair and buckled the seatbelt. He would have laid him down, only he didn't have a backseat in the pickup, and with the rain, he couldn't put him in the open bed either.

The drive to town was uneventful. Looking around the quiet streets, Hank frowned thoughtfully. They didn't get strangers coming to town that often, and if someone was looking for him, news of a stranger would lead them straight to him. Something about this didn't seem right. People like this guy didn't just randomly turn up on the edge of the forest. With that in mind, Hank settled the younger man against the window with his head against his chest and took the quieter roads home. It was pretty late, so there weren't many cars about anyway, and he lived on his own plot of land on the edge of town. The perfect retirement. After twenty-seven years on the force and all he'd lost to the job, he deserved this.

Pulling up at his house, he lifted the man over his shoulder and took him inside. He didn't think they'd been seen on the road, and no one would disturb them here. Something like relief swept through him as the door closed and a low woof reached his ears. His giant Saint Bernard ambled over to greet him, throat rumbling curiously at the scent of the newcomer. With a little coaxing, Hank soon had the enormous dog settled on a cushion in the small living room. The first thing to do was get them both out of their wet clothes. The man was far too small to fit into anything Hank owned, but an oversized shirt was better than nothing. With that in mind, he stripped him down and examined him properly.

"Sumo! Away! Get on with you!" Sumo snuffled around him and wagged his tail as he sniffed and nosed the unconscious man and his clothes. Hank patted him with a chuckle and shooed him back to bed so he could look the man over. Now, in the light of his living room, he could see he was quite a bit younger than him. Maybe ten years or more. Despite that, he wasn't young. Hank would say maybe forty or forty-five with all the thin lines creeping in around his eyes. He had thick brunette hair that was kept fairly short and was probably well groomed on a good day. Though he wasn't handsome in the classic sense, there was something notable in the slope of his cheeks and the shape of his nose. Right now, there was a layer of rough scruff on his cheeks, but Hank didn't think that was usually the case. It didn't look trimmed.

As he removed them, he could tell his clothes were quite fine. Not designer. He wasn't overly wealthy, but he certainly got by. The coat was thick wool, heavy with the rain, and the suit underneath was tailored to fit. An office worker? He could be. Some sort of businessman maybe. Once he got to the slacks, he froze. There was an empty holster there. Possibly law enforcement. Run of the mill guys don't wear tailored suits like this! That meant he could be important. Curious, Hank continued undressing him, and almost snorted as he found the neat white shirt was held down by garters around his thighs. He looked the type to have once had matching sock garters as well. Were they removed, or did he lose them? It seemed impossible that one could lose garters by accident.

Since he was out of his clothes now, Hank started looking for injuries. Aside from the scrapes on his face, his upper body seemed relatively unharmed. His skin was pale, but Hank wasn't sure why. It could be his natural complexion, the result of confinement, or he could be sick. His torso was a little battered in places and there were scratches on his hands, probably from stumbling around the forest. Shit...His right arm was covered in needle marks. An addict? He didn't look like an addict, odd as that sounded. Hank had worked around addicts for years, and it was pretty rare for them to be this put together. I did find him stumbling through the forest though...

His legs were more bruised than his torso, but Hank didn't find that particularly surprising. If he'd been stumbling around the forest for more than a day, it stood to reason he'd take a bump or two. His feet were the worst part. They were raw and tender, shredded by the forest floor, but alongside that, there were other marks. Dark red patches that looked sore and swollen, sort of blistered. Burn marks? Was someone torturing the guy? Could have been. There had to be some reason he was out there in the forest. It certainly seemed like he was running away from something. You didn't just turn up in the middle of a forest road looking like that.

The most important thing to do was to get those wounds cleaned up and keep him warm. The poor guy was shivering in his sleep! With that in mind, Hank hurried through to the bedroom to grab an old hoodie from his closet. While he was there, he took the chance to get out of his wet clothes and pull on some loungewear. By the time he returned, Sumo had taken a renewed interest in their guest. He'd heaved his upper body onto the sofa to rest his paws and head on the naked man's chest. Clicking his tongue, Hank laced a hand in his thick fur and ruffled his ears.

"What are you doing, hm? Go on now!" Sumo followed the leading hand on his head and dropped to the floor again. The man was still shivering in his sleep, so Hank dutifully pulled on the oversized hoodie and covered what he could. Next, he needed to see to the man's feet. They were freezing. He brought some warm, soapy water and a cloth so he could bathe them, letting them soak until the skin warmed through. It was probably lucky the guy was sleeping as he worked. He had to change the water twice. First because it got so muddy, and second because of the blood. The third time, Hank dried off as much as he could and sprayed the disinfectant on the bleeding cuts. Next came a layer of thick burn gel and gauze, and then he wrapped each foot in a long bandage. It was lucky he rarely needed to use the med kit and had enough stockpiled. He was almost out of bandages when he reached his face. Luckily, that just needed a little cleaning, and it was fine in the open air.

"Who the fuck are you? You got any ID in here?" Hank was pretty much talking to himself as he grabbed the man's wet coat and rifled through his pockets. There was nothing in the outer pockets, but on the inside was a thin metal case. At first, he wasn't sure how to open it, but a small black pad on the edge marked an electronic lock. Fingerprint lock...Taking the man's icy hand, he pressed his thumb to the pad, and the case popped open. It was a fancy card wallet. He had five cards. A credit card from PNC, an American Express card, a Starbucks points card, a card for a local supermarket, and what looked like another store card. They all had the same name. Richard A Perkins. It wasn't much, but a name was better than nothing. "What are you doing all the way out here, hm?"

There was no answer. Not that he'd expected one. The poor guy looked half starved and exhausted. His body was still shivering, which wasn't surprising when he wasn't wearing any pants. In order to give him a little modesty, Hank tossed a thick fleece blanket over him and took his clothes to the washing machine. Despite being tailored, they were still machine washable and if he hung them near the radiator once the cycle was done, they should be dry by mid-morning. Hopefully, that would be in time for Richard to wake up. He didn't look like he'd be waking up any sooner.

That thought proved right. It was almost three in the afternoon by the time Richard stirred. It happened slowly. Hank, who had been up worrying most of the night about the stranger in his living room, had spent the day checking on him while cleaning up and drying his clothes. Sumo had stayed with him all night and most of the day. Hank wasn't sure why, but every time he went in, the lumbering dog had clambered up to almost smother their guest, lying on top of him. Maybe it was the shivering. It didn't seem as bad when Sumo was resting against his chest. After telling him to get down the first time, when it was still early in the morning, Hank chanced driving into town to replenish his supply of bandages, much to the cashier's surprise. He rarely stopped by the chemist for anything. It wasn't like he was buying hard drugs, so stocking up was a good enough excuse when asked in friendly conversation.

When he peeled off Richard's bandages, he found the bleeding had stopped, but the underlying burns were still wet and sore looking. After another clean up, he wound on the fresh bandages and left Richard to sleep with Sumo on the couch. He was still pale and shivery, and his skin was sort of clammy, like he was sick. His skin didn't feel any hotter than it should though, and when he checked with the electric thermometer it was barely thirty-seven. Just a little above average. Hank kept an eye on it throughout the day, right up until the moment he started waking up. It was the increased movement that gave it away. His head tossed and his body squirmed, unsettling Sumo and almost kicking off the thick blanket. Hank hurriedly covered him again. The last thing he needed was this guy waking up and thinking he was a pervert who'd left him with his cock out!

Since he was waking up, Hank grabbed some water and cobbled together a simple cheese sandwich. Hopefully, Richard didn't have any allergies that would upset his stomach. He really needed to eat something. It took maybe twenty minutes for his eyes to finally flutter open, and they captivated Hank almost instantly. Deep dark pits of chestnut. At first they were dazed and sleepy, but then the fear set in. That moment of waking up in a strange place and not knowing where you were or how you got there. Hank set a gentle hand on his shoulder, keeping him down and giving him time to settle.

"How are you feeling?" He kept his voice at a soft grumble, wary of scaring him. Despite that, Richard looked absolutely petrified as he woke up. He felt it, too. Richard's heart raced as he looked around the unfamiliar room. Then again, he wasn't sure he'd remember it anything anyway. What he did know what how he felt. Besides the terror of not knowing anything, he felt sick. Cold, shivery, nauseous, and something else. He wasn't sure what, but it wasn't pleasant. The hand on his shoulder tightened, the thumb rubbing in almost soothing circles. It was sort of reassuring.

The man at his side didn't seem set to rush him. He waited patiently, gripping his shoulder and giving him an encouraging nod. There was something trusting in his face. Sort of fatherly. He was a big man, even sitting down. The hand on his shoulder almost covered it completely. Though he wasn't sure, he also got the feeling he was older. His hair was silver, hanging about his ears and matching his neatly trimmed beard. Gentle blue eyes watched him, patiently waiting and assessing him.

"Here, have some water...I made you a sandwich, too." Richard eyed the meal distrustfully. Though his stomach ached and churned, he wasn't sure he could trust it. How did he know this man wasn't a crazy axe murderer who'd brought him here to kill him? Then again, if that were the case, why was he under a blanket and not dead on the side of the road? Waking up a little more, Richard felt the fleecy layer brush his naked cock. He balked, swatting Hank's hand away and curling up in the corner of the sofa. "It's alright!" Hank's hands were up in an instant, and he moved back, giving Richard room. Richard's breaths came in quick gasps, dark eyes wide and looking around for other people or a way to escape. He gasped again as Sumo appeared at the edge of the sofa wagging his tail. Hank hurriedly grabbed his collar and held him back, giving Richard time to orient himself. "He's alright, you're alright. We're not going to hurt you...I'm Hank, and this is Sumo." Instead of moving in again, Hank grabbed the plate with the sandwich and held it within reach. "Here, you look like you need it."

Half naked or not, Richard's dry mouth watered at the sight of the sandwich. He moved slowly, eyes darting between Hank and the plate as he reached out. Hank held steady, even when Richard's hand whipped out and snatched half the sandwich off the plate. Maybe he really hadn't eaten in days. Half the triangle disappeared in one bite. His mouth was so full Hank wasn't sure he'd be able to swallow without choking. He held out the water next, and that was snatched, too. Nothing filled Richard's head in that moment except eating and drinking. Nothing else mattered. Not even the wet nose now snuffling his blanket for crumbs.

"Easy now, you'll make yourself sick!" He felt sick anyway. No sooner had he swallowed than his stomach roiled. He curled up with a whimper, swaddling himself in the thick grey blanket. Cursing under his breath, Hank hurried off to the kitchen and returned with a plastic basin a few moments later. "What did I tell you? Take your time. I won't rush you." Taking the basin, Richard hugged it against his chest and waited. Despite the churning in his stomach, he didn't think he was about to throw up. Not yet, at least. "Do you know what you were doing in the forest?" The forest?

Snatches of tree trunks and whipping branches came to mind. And pain. Hot, burning pain in his feet. Toes catching on rocks. Tumbling down leafy slopes. Always moving. Always running. Why was I running? He didn't remember. All he remembered was being scared, like the whole forest was out to get him. The wind in the trees moaned and whistled like it was alerting the world to his presence. Was I alone in the forest? That bothered him. He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? Reaching up, he touched his head and felt a sore spot. The tender patch ached, and a small lump was forming.

"Sorry about that...You stumbled out of the trees right in front of my truck." The light! He remembered that part. Light and then something hard hitting him in the side. He touched his face, remembering the sting as he'd rolled across the road. "Does it hurt?" Hank looked incredibly guilty, which reassured him it wasn't on purpose at least. Richard shook his head, which seemed to put him at ease. Thinking back to his earlier question, Richard licked his lips. He wasn't sure he could trust this man, but he'd helped him so far. Who else was he going to tell?

"I don't remember." His voice came out sounding rough and groggy, making him instantly reach for the water. Hank seemed a little surprised at first, but perhaps it made sense. He'd thought he might have seen some shit. Maybe he'd blocked it out.

"What don't you remember?" Richard licked his lips and squirmed, more nervous than ever.

"Anything." Something in the dull way he said the word suggested he meant more than just a few odd details.

"You remember your name?" Hank was both surprised and troubled as Richard shook his head. "Well, I can at least help with that. Here. This was in your pocket, and it was your thumbprint that opened it." Richard reached out hesitantly and took the silver wallet. It was almost instinctive as he pressed his thumb to the pad, like muscle memory. As it clicked open, he explored the cards as Hank had. Richard A Perkins...That was probably him. All five cards had the same name, and he was the one who'd opened it. "You were wearing a holster too, one common within law enforcement, so you might be with the police." That didn't ring a bell, but he couldn't remember anything. The whole situation had him feeling woozy. Hank noticed it as his head started to nod. "You good?"

"No, I feel tired...Sort of...sick." Richard pinched his eyes shut as the hands returned, helping him lie down again. The deep, rumbling voice lulled him, telling him to sleep it off. That was probably a good idea. His stomach was churning so much he probably wouldn't be able to move anyway. Hank settled him down, unsure what to do. This went beyond being bumped by the truck. The poor guy had amnesia! Whether it was permanent or temporary was something they could figure out later. The main point was that Richard needed a hospital. If he'd been hit hard enough to knock his memories out of whack, he could have all sorts of problems, and Hank couldn't help feeling that he was responsible. I hit him with my fucking truck! It was an accident, but shit!

He considered calling the hospital and having them come get him, but how would that make Richard feel? He'd stumbled out of the forest with torn up feet, been hit by a truck, and woken up in a strange place with no memories. How would he feel waking up to be moved again? But he definitely needed to get checked over. Hank was no medical professional, but even he knew memory loss was serious. Having said that, his body seemed mostly fine, so another nap shouldn't hurt.

Unfortunately, when Richard woke up two hours later, he looked worse than before. His pale skin was getting clammy, and his body was shivering like he was in a freezer. He also felt sick and ended up throwing up this time. His eyes were teary, and his nose sniffly, though some of that was probably down to the vomiting. As he rinsed and returned the bucket, Hank couldn't help thinking about those marks on his arm. If he was hooked on something, it made sense he was suffering withdrawals. Having checked his clothes, he knew he wasn't carrying any drugs with him, and with his memory the way it was, he probably wouldn't remember what he was hooked on anyway. That was probably for the best, but it was also dangerous. Depending on the drug, the withdrawals could cause serious complications. That pretty much made up Hank's mind for him.

"Alright, come on." He brought Richard's clean clothes to the sofa and peeled off the blanket. Richard was so shaky, he didn't even try to stop him, though he did cover himself with his hands. "I'm taking you to the hospital." Though he was clearly nervous, Richard didn't put up a fight as Hank helped him into his boxers and slacks. Since the hoodie was a lot warmer than the thin cotton shirt, Hank left him like that and bagged the other items. Tucking his coat around his small shoulders, Hank helped him stand and almost immediately had to lift him. His feet hurt so much he couldn't put weight on them. As a result, Hank ended up carrying him to the truck. They took the bucket just in case he got sick on the way and Hank pulled out of the driveway.

The drive was mostly uneventful, besides the fact Richard became very small as they hit the forest road. He hunkered down in his seat as if he was worried about being seen. Hank couldn't blame him. Something must have brought him all the way out here, and it didn't seem like anything good. Once they hit the open road, he was actually a lot better, and by the time they reached the city, he'd perked up enough to open the window. At the hospital, Hank carried him into the ER and sat with him on the hard plastic seats.

Now they were there, Richard seemed a lot more nervous. Rather than sitting normally, with his feet on the floor, Hank encouraged him to sit sideways and rest his legs over his thighs. Hank's legs were so long there was no way Richard's bound feet would touch the floor. The shivering was getting worse despite the woollen coat, and he looked so pale that those around them were shuffling away so they didn't catch anything. Feeling protective, Hank looped an arm around him and encouraged Richard to rest his head on his shoulder, hoping he might drift off for a while. If he drifted off, he wouldn't feel the hours crawling by.

After a good three hours, they were finally called into a small room, where Hank set Richard on an examination table and helped explain what happened. The loss of memory was obviously quite worrisome, and Richard was soon changed into a hospital smock so they could take him for scans and x-rays. Hank wasn't actually sure what he should do in the meantime. He wasn't family, just the guy who'd dropped him off. This would usually be the point he went home, but the doctor said they'd called the police and it made sense for him to stick around. He also wanted as many details as Hank could give him.

"I'd say you're right about the needle marks, but he's not a long-term user." Richard seemed less than pleased about being spoken about like this, but didn't move to pull away as the doctor stroked his sore skin. "And you say you have no memory of this?" Richard shook his head, suddenly unsure if being questioned directly was such a good idea. The doctor hummed and brought some tools that made Richard balk right away. Hank noticed it, too. He looked scared stiff of the needles lying on the tray. "Since we don't know what you were on, we'll need to do a few tests and see what shows up."

"No!" It was the first thing Richard had been adamant about since Hank found him. He pulled his arm against his chest and leaned as far away from the doctor as he could. The doctor paused at that. If he was this scared of needles, he certainly hadn't injected himself. Richard's breaths became shallow as he squirmed on the edge of the bed. His mouth felt dry, his body shaking for a whole new reason. Pinching his eyes shut, he got a flash of something. Pain. Pain in his arm. He couldn't move it. He couldn't move anything! Straps. He was sitting. A chair? It was dark and cold, somewhere dimly lit by a single lamp. Not a house. Wood. Battered, almost flimsy-looking wood.

"Richard, hey...You good?" He was very much not good. It was getting harder to breathe in the tight space. Hank rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Come on now, you're alright...It's just a hospital. You're safe." Richard didn't feel safe, but he wasn't sure if he was here or there. Noise filled his ears. White noise. It was too loud. He vaguely heard a voice telling Hank to hold him. Hank did as he was told and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Burying his face in Hank's chest, Richard closed his eyes and tried not to fall. He barely even noticed the prick in his arm, but he did notice the heavy feeling in his head that struck a minute later. He whined softly, reaching up to fist a shaking hand in Hank's leather jacket.

"It should be alright to let go now...Lie him down." The room sounded far away as his body fell back. It was too bright. He winced, squinting up at Hank's blurred outline. A warm hand laced in his hair, jumbled words barely reaching his ears. Hank, for his part, was just trying to calm him down. He seemed scared shitless by the whole thing, which wasn't really surprising. Who wouldn't be scared if they lost their memories and woke up suffering withdrawals? Due to hospital procedure, he couldn't stay with Richard the whole time. He was soon ushered out into the hall, where he sat on a hard plastic chair waiting for news.

He honestly wasn't sure what was keeping him there. Richard had been safely delivered to the hospital, where he'd be well cared for until the police arrived and they could figure out where the fuck he came from. Hopefully. Someone had to be looking for him. From the way he was dressed, it seemed at least his place of work would have noticed his disappearance. There was really no need for him to stay. The police might want to talk to me...Part of him also wanted to be reassured his truck hadn't caused any lasting injuries. If it had, he'd have to pay the medical bills. He didn't have much in savings, but hopefully he'd have enough to help.

Hank wasn't sure how long he sat there. People went in and came out multiple times, checking Richard's charts and making sure he was still sleeping or had everything he needed. Tests were run, but Hank didn't hear the results. It wasn't like he was next of kin or anything. It was probably hours before the police turned up. They sat with him first, since Richard was still sleeping, and took his statement about what happened. The story probably sounded bizarre. What were the odds of running into a guy with amnesia in the middle of the forest? They didn't arrest him, but being ex-law enforcement, Hank didn't expect them to.

It was also a relief to find his truck hadn't caused more than a few bruises. In fact, besides his messed up feet and the knock on his head, he was in pretty good shape. His biggest problems were the withdrawals and malnutrition. Whatever happened to him, he hadn't been able to eat a proper meal for maybe four or five days. He'd also been pumped full of Dilaudid, a powerful painkiller usually given out on prescription. From the amount of marks on his arm, the doctor felt it was a very recent issue, no more than a few weeks.

The police soon went away, probably to write up reports and run Richard's name through the database to see what came up. It's what Hank would have done. Since that was over with, Hank asked if he could check in on Richard before he went home. It made no sense to stay, but he couldn't help feeling a little responsible. He was the one who'd found him. The only person Richard knew at the moment. It felt wrong to leave him alone and vulnerable without a word. The nurses seemed to agree as they let him inside.

Richard already looked a lot better. There was an IV in his hand, replenishing the fluids he'd lost during his time in the forest. The shaking had also calmed, which Hank put down to the second smaller bag of fluid, which was probably some sort of drug to counteract the withdrawals. His skin was less clammy, though still pale, and he looked tired. That was probably down to the earlier sedative. His dark eyes were barely open as he lay huddled beneath the thin sheets. He was awake enough to notice Hank's entry.

"Hey, how are you doing?" He may have listened as the doctor briefed the police about it, but that didn't tell him how Richard felt. Though he looked a lot better, he didn't look good. Drained and lethargic was more like it. Richard shrugged his small shoulders, which seemed to take some effort. "Still sick?" Richard shook his head. That was something. He'd be able to keep his next meal down. If he stays awake long enough to eat...His eyes were fluttering already, and if he didn't say goodbye now, he'd probably miss the chance. "Well, I'll head home now." Richard's eyes opened a little wider at that.

"Y-you're leaving?" Hank winced a little at the vulnerability seeping into his tone. Besides the police and hospital staff, Hank was the only person he'd met. The only person he knew. He was lost and alone, scared of what he didn't remember. Judging by how sick and weak he felt, it couldn't be anything good. Hank felt bad as he nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Right...Well-uh, thanks for...you know." Hank waved it off. Most people would have done the same. Just like most people would probably feel shitty about bowing out at this stage.

"I hope the police find some answers for you." This was the right choice. He wasn't responsible for Richard. The guy had to be in his forties! That was more than old enough to take care of himself. The police would probably come by the next day with a phone number or a worried spouse and kids. Richard managed a weak smile and nodded, both of them looking awkwardly around the room. "Well...I'll just..." Trailing off, Hank ambled to the door and put his hand on the handle. Fuck. "Maybe I could come back tomorrow...See how you're doing." Relief washed over Richard's face at the reassurance and Hank kicked himself. This is way more involved than you're supposed to get, idiot!

"That would be great! I-I mean, as long as it's not too much trouble..."

"No, no trouble. I'll see you tomorrow then." Richard's tired thanks followed him into the hall as he shut the door. Getting involved with shit like this was generally a bad idea. People got attached. Maybe it was some sort of hero syndrome making him want to take care of Richard. He was the one who'd found him. It made him feel responsible. If I'm not careful, we'll both get attached! Victims often latched on to those who saved them, and Richard didn't even remember his own name! That was a tonne of vulnerability! One visit won't hurt.