Jason Pinter - The Stolen

We pulled up to his building and I paid the driver. I walked up to the lobby, slightly embarrassed that I was even doing this. Who the hell was I to have any doubts about Jack? The man had built a career any newsperson would die for, and here I was like the parent who thought his kid was playing hooky. That this child was in his sixties with a monthly mortgage payment likely larger than my college tuition was beside the point.

The doorman was an elderly gent with a wisp of gray hair and teeth slightly yellow and askew. He opened the door for me and smiled pleasantly.

"I'm here to see Jack O'Donnell," I said.

"Just a second." He picked up a black phone that looked to be connected to some amazingly fancy and complicated intercom system. He fiddled with the buttons for a minute, then flipped through a Rolodex. "Who may I ask is visiting?"

"Henry Parker."

"Just a moment, Mr. Parker."

He pressed a buzzer, held the phone to his ear and waited. After a minute he put the phone down. "I'm sorry, sir, nobody's answering."

"Hold on one sec," I said. I took out my cell phone, dialed Jack's home phone, then his cell phone. Both went to voice mail before anyone picked up. Odd. "Would you mind trying one more time?"

"Certainly, sir."

He pressed the buzzer again, held the phone to his ear. A few seconds later the man's brow furrowed. "Yes, yes, hello?

Mr. O'Donnell?" The doorman seemed either confused or concerned. "Mr. O'Donnell, is everything all right? There's a Mr. Parker here to see you. Hello, Mr. O'Donnell?"

The doorman hung up,

"What happened?" I said, concern seeping into my voice.

"I don't know, it sounded like Mr. O'Donnell, but he sounded, well, I don't mean to judge, but how should I say, out of it?"

"Out of it? Like how?"

"I really don't know." He looked concerned, then said,

"How do you know Jack?"

"I work with him at the Gazette. " He seemed unsure of whether to let me up. "Look, Jack didn't come in to work today and that's not like him. I just want to make sure he's safe."

"Is that right," he said, not as a question. After considering this, he said, "He's on the fifth floor, the second elevator bank on your left."

I thanked the doorman and walked swiftly to the elevator. I rode it to five. Jack occupied the whole floor.

Not a bad deal. I approached and rang the doorbell. Immediately I could sense something was wrong. Not from the door itself, but because the entire hallway stank of booze and some sort of rot.

I pressed the bell again, then banged on the door, my heart racing.

"Jack!" I yelled. "Jack, are you in there? Come on, buddy, open up."

I heard a shuffling, and froze. The shuffling came from behind the door, and it was getting closer. I backed up, didn't know what the hell was going on. I heard a sound come from inside the apartment, a soft moan that chilled my blood.

"Jack, goddamn it, open up!"

I heard a lock disengage, then the door opened a crack.

It didn't open any farther. I approached the door, pushed it open wider.

"Jack? Where are…?"

My breath caught in my throat when I could see what was behind the door. Jack was lying in a puddle of what looked like vomit. His undershirt was covered in green chunks, and the whole apartment smelled like a rotted distillery. Flecks were stuck to the man's beard.

"Oh, Jesus, Jack."

I shoved the door open and pushed in, gathering the old man in my arms. He was heavy and essentially dead weight, but I managed to drag him over to the couch. The white leather was covered in odd stains. Empty bottles littered the floor, tossed about like they were nothing more than discarded paper clips.

"Jack, come on, talk to me." I patted his cheek, laying him on the couch. Then I rushed into the kitchen, found where he kept his dishes and poured a glass of water. I jogged back, tilted his head up. Raised the glass to his lips.

When I poured, the water ran down the sides of his mouth, pooled in the folds of his pants.

"Come on! "

I tried again, this time opening his lips with my fingers.

When the water entered his mouth, he began to sputter and cough. His eyes flickered open as he wiped the liquid from his lips. He blinked a few times, his eyes red, lids crusty.

"Henry?" he said.

"I'm here, Jack," I replied, cradling his head.

"Forgot to call in sick today," he said, before going slack in my arms.

I sat by the side of the bed, thinking about how much time

I'd spent in hospitals recently. Jack had been taken to

Bellevue, where he was diagnosed with acute alcohol poisoning.

I'd heard sketchy things about Bellevue, some of which were confirmed upon seeing several men clad all in inmate orange walking handcuffed through the halls. I just prayed the doctors here understood how important this patient was, and had passed their medical board exams with flying colors. Unfortunately, I was getting used to white hospital walls. The antiseptic smell. The forced, sad smiles on concerned friends and family members.

My ex-girlfriend, Mya, was finally at home after recovering from several surgeries after her body was shattered by a ruthless sociopath earlier in the year. I'd stayed by

Mya's bed for weeks, comforting her mother when we didn't know if Mya would pull through, then comforting

Mya when she went through the agony of rehabilitation and coping with the murder of her father by the same man who'd tried to end her life.

When you give yourself to someone, you carry the responsibility of not just being a friend or confidant, or even a lover, but giving yourself to them when they need it most. I knew Mya had desired for us to get back together, and perhaps the most difficult part of those weeks was being a friend while keeping my distance. Physical pain went away, or could be stunted through medication. It broke my heart to deny her my affection when she probably needed it most. But she would have been hurt more later knowing my heart still belonged to another woman.

Seeing Jack lying in bed made me wonder just what I could, or would, give the man. Perhaps I'd been too emotionally reserved. Or perhaps not given enough.

The doctors had measured Jack's blood alcohol level at an astonishing. 19, well over double the legal limit in New

York.

An IV was hooked into his right arm, tubes in his nose pumping oxygen, his breathing slow and steady. A bag dripped fluids into his veins as they attempted to flush out

Jack's poisoned system. The doctors also informed me they would be testing for cirrhosis of the liver. They guessed-correctly-that this kind of drinking binge was not limited to last night.

A doctor entered the room. He was middle-aged, wore thick glasses on his thin nose. His eyes were red, tired. He flipped through the chart at the foot of Jack's bed, then checked out the readings on the monitors by the bedside.

He scribbled in the folder, then placed it back.

"How is he?" I asked. "Dr…"

The doctor turned, then said with a faint smile, "Dr. Brenneman. I've seen worse."

"You didn't see him before they cleaned him up."

"There's always a worse, trust me. But he's lucky you found him when you did. The biggest danger with alcohol poisoning is aspiration and asphyxiation. He could have literally choked to death on his own vomit."

"Ordinarily, I'd say he owes me a drink for saving his life, but…"

"I don't think that's the wisest course of action,"

Brenneman said.

"When will he wake up?" I asked.

"Well, that's all up to him. We're going to keep him for a few days and monitor his fluid levels, make sure his liver functions are all up to par, but he's not unconscious or anything like that. Just sleeping."

"Got it. Thanks, Doc, I appreciate it. And I'm sure Jack does, too."