Nobody should do anything that feels like base jumping. Ever. It may be exhilarating, an adrenaline rush like no other, but it's the world's most dangerous sport for a reason. Not many people can make a safe landing after that kind of jump.

In contrast to the highs I've woken up with the last couple of mornings, I have definitely miscalculated my landing. When I wake up in my apartment in New York on Sunday morning, alone, I feel hollow. Emotionally I’m lying at the bottom of a cliff.

And to be honest, waking up in my old life feels like waking from a dream where my whole life was thrown into a blender and I'm not sure if I really woke up because I feel so . . . shit.

I have no work to do to keep my mind occupied because my company is selling in four days and every single i is dotted and t crossed. Montgomery Homes & Facilities. That's something I can focus on.

I get up, make coffee, and shower then pull out all the financials I was given last week. After two hours I'm on the phone to Robert who's on the way out of mass.

"There's a discrepancy. . ." I begin when he answers.

---

I thought maybe I made the decision to go out to Rockaway and meet David in person almost to convince myself the previous week hadn't been some elaborate dive into the Matrix. But then it turned out I needed to anyway.

After finding the discrepancy on our available Medicaid beds and bothering not only Robert, but our two accountants, on a Sunday morning, they somehow miraculously found additional space at the facility in Summerville.

Robert told me the facility needed a personal assessment or recommendation if they were going to make a place for David. I used that as my excuse when I texted Bobby and asked him to drive me out of the city.

---

"She seems like a lovely lady," Bobby says out of the blue after about twenty minutes.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"Emmy," he says. "You meeting up with Emmy?"

My shoulders lower. "No."

"Oh. My apologies."

"It's fine." I sigh and stare out the window.

When we get to the facility, I step out of the car and stand there for a moment. The building is a squat brick monolith amongst equally nondescript and unappealing buildings. There's a fenced concrete area at the side where a few patients are sitting on benches. There are pots against the wall that probably pass as the gardening activity.

I realize I always thought of nursing homes as happy farms and fields, a place to put ones loved ones out to pasture in the best way possible. Pushing wheelchairs through a garden, enjoying the shady pines and fresh air.

This is not that.

I take a breath, then walk through the front doors.

"Trystan Montgomery to see David Dubois," I tell the security guard.

The receptionist asks for ID and prints a visitor’s badge.

"Mr. Montgomery," says a voice to my left. I turn and see a guy in scrubs.

He steps forward. "You were the one who rescued David from his outing. Friend of Emmy's, right?"

I hold out my hand. "Um. Yes."

He takes it. "D'Andre."

Ah. I nod and smile.

D'Andre turns to the receptionist. "It's cool. I'll show him up."

We head to the elevator.

"This is a surprise," he says. "Not sure how much you know about David's condition, but he comes in and out, you know?"

"Actually, I don't know what to expect. But I felt like visiting."

The elevator doors ding open. "Well, here we are." He walks past an empty nurses station. "Lunch hour," he says by way of explanation and continues on to the third door down the hall.

He opens the door and presses it back with an arm, letting me pass. "David. You have a visitor," he calls, and then to me, "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

The smells of ammonia, stale urine, and clean detergent fight over each other. David is sitting in a chair by the window. He's skinnier than the personality I imagined. Frail.

"David," I greet him as he stares at me with concern.

"D-Do I know you?"

"No, it's okay. We've never met."

He breathes out, relaxing slightly.

"I'm Trystan." I approach him and hold out my hand.

He makes to stand up.

"Not on my account." I smile then motion to the window. "Besides, I think you can see the ocean from here." It's a stretch, but between the buildings, maybe.

"Trystan, you say?"

"Friend of Emmy's." I perch on the end of his bed as there's no other chair.

"Oh yes! I know you. You're her fella."

I swallow, not sure what to say. But he looks ecstatic so I don't correct him.

"Just had a lovely visit with Emmy."

"You did, huh?"

"She came by this morning."

I can't help a bemused laugh. "And how is she doing today?"

"Ah, you know. Always a big smile. She doesn't like me to worry."

"Of course. And I'm sure you don't like her to worry, either."

"Exactly right. I'm feeling good today. So clear about everything. I had to tell her to take some chances. She's scared."

"Of what?"

"Relationships. She was a foster child, you know?"

Inhaling, I purse my lips. "She hasn't told me much. I figured that out, but—"

"Well, she'd been through a bunch of families, but they hadn't worked out for one reason or another, then when she was about eleven she came to live with my sister and her husband."

I feel uncomfortable that David is telling me Emmy's secrets.

It should be her telling me, right?

"They were older, of course," David goes on. "But still trying to do what they could since they'd never had kids of their own. She was a good girl. So nervous about getting in trouble and being sent away again."

I swallow, my throat feeling rough. Thinking of Emmy as a nervous little girl, scared she wouldn't be loved or even kept, makes my heart feel jagged in my chest.

"But they loved her," David assures me. "We all did. What's not to love, you know?" He laughs, and I stretch my mouth in a grimace that's nowhere near a smile.

"Anyway, Trystan. I thought you should know she's always single because I don't think she trusts things will last."

I shift. "Why are you telling me this, David?" Did Emmy call him or something?

"Shouldn't I?"

"I don't know." I know nothing anymore. I met a girl less than a week ago and am now getting all up in her business on purpose.

"Ah well. Today my mind actually knows what day of the week it is."

"Huh. Okay. And what day of the week is it?"

"I have no idea." He chuckles. "Every day here is the same as the last, isn't it?"