san diego california

Today we travel, not far, but with a plan. Moving away from the Hospital parking garage, he sits beside me sorting through his dead brother's wallet. He flips through the cards, not making note of whom his brother kept contact with or what his blood type was.

He says: Will you look at this.

I take my eyes off the road, turn them on him, and he shows me the credit cards.

He says: One of them is gold.

He says: There are many things I want.

There is thirteen dollars in cash.

He says something about how Chuck should never have gone into the hospital with that number of singles in his back pocket, and then he says it again.

I tell him to put the cards away, that we are not going to use them.

He puts an unused phone card on my dash.

He says: In case of emergencies, or call your friends.

He smiles at me, because he want to do something nice.

Between his teeth there are gaps you could fit your little finger in.

I think to myself: He hasn't bathed in months.

I touch the scar from where his belt cracked the skin under my hairline, and then slip the card into my shirt pocket.

For the unexpected.