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  I'll drive this old heap until it quits on me, because I can smell Ollie in it. See him in it. I've got his picture wedged into a gap in the dashboard, a candid photo I took in Africa. He's blood-spattered, in the middle of stripping off his gloves. He's exhausted; you can see it in the bags under his eyes. But he's happy. I'd just told him I loved him, out of the blue. He'd needed to hear it, and I knew it, so I shouted it out across the tent: "Hey, Pep! I love you!" And he'd looked up, grinned, and I'd snapped the shot. I got him grinning, a moment of happiness amid all the hell.

  I turn the engine over and it coughs, rattles, and then catches with a rumble. The radio is on--it's always on--and the cab is filled with country music, Ollie's favorite. It's a traditional station, the same station where he'd had it tuned. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Randy Travis, Alan Jackson, maybe some older Tim McGraw and that crowd. Nothing new. It's the soundtrack of this town of Ardmore--slides on steel strings and songs about love lost and taillights in the dust.

  I hate it.

  But the old radio has never been changed. Not once, not ever, and I'll never change it.

  We used to sit in that old Nissan pickup at the MSF compound, and Ollie would pull out his trusty iPod, filled to max capacity with every country song he could think of, tuck the left ear bud in my ear, the right in his, and we'd listen to country music and catch a breath or two between incoming two-tons full of bloody refugees.

  I'll always hate country music.

  But I listen to it anyway.

  Home is a good twenty minutes away on the outskirts of town. Outskirts may be pushing it. It's a tiny one-room shotgun shack at the end of a long dirt road, sitting on a half-acre pocket in the midst of hundreds of acres of grass and hay in every direction. No neighbors but the Jensens half a mile down, who own all those acres, and the dozen or so horses grazing on them. It's a lonely little place, dead silent at night except for the hooting of the occasional owl, and the crickets, and the humming of the light fixed to the power line pole at the edge of my property. It's not much, but it's mine.

  I've got a couch, a TV, a few overflowing bookshelves, a bed, and a dresser; that's all that'd fit anyway. It's all I need, all I'll ever want.

  I toss my lab coat and purse on the couch, strip out of my scrubs, toss them in the hamper. Throw my sports bra and panties after them, step in the shower and rinse off the day. I towel off, brush my hair and slip on an old T-shirt of Ollie's. It used to smell like him, but the smell has faded now even though I don't wash it much; I'm trying to preserve the last shreds of his scent on it.

  Pep, my cat and only friend, waits until I'm sitting on the couch with a book before saying hello. He's a little black and white tom, so of course I named him Pep. I adopted him as my first official act after moving down here, because you can leave a cat in a house alone all day, and I needed something.

  And god, does Pep come through for me. He's a snuggly little fella; I like to sit cross-legged on the couch, and he likes to curl up like a comma in the space between my legs. Purrs like a little engine for as long as I stroke his back and the little strip of fur between his ears. He sleeps on the pillow next to mine at night, and takes my warm spot after I get up in the morning.

  I read until my eyes blur, until my head spins. And then I climb into bed, set Pep on his pillow, and go to sleep.

  Then, I wake up in the morning, and do it all over again.

  Same as I've done every day since I came down here.

  I had to go somewhere, and Ollie's hometown seemed as good a place as any, especially since his parents didn't live here anymore. They were up in northern California somewhere, and I couldn't stand to be near them. Ollie sounded like his father and looked like his mother, and both of them tore my heart to shreds.

  Being in Ardmore was another way of holding on to him, of being alone with him. Another way of keeping him as close as I could. Feeling him. Seeing him. He'd gotten milkshakes at the diner, bought his first pair of Tony Lomas at the outfitter a few blocks down. Took his first girlfriend to the movies at the theater across from the town square. He's all over this town, and that's equal parts comforting and cutting.

  I don't cry myself to sleep at night.

  I stopped doing that months ago.

  I don't whisper his name when I'm lonely, because I'm lonely all the time.

  I don't get the shakes anymore, because I don't do anything more dangerous or traumatic than stitching up the occasional boo-boo. I quit MSF, of course. I couldn't go back, not after losing Ollie. I couldn't face any of them. I couldn't face Africa again, not without him.

  I can't face life without Ollie.

  I don't know how.

  I know what I'm doing is unhealthy. I'm not moving on. I'm not healing. I've grieved, but I just can't seem to stop grieving. I can't stop needing him. I can't breathe without him, and he's gone, so I can't breathe.

  So here I am, in Ardmore, Oklahoma.

  Alone.

  The only thing I know how to be.

  At least I've got Pep.

  Wandering the city streets

  Trinidad, California

  "I'm sorry, but I can't share that information with you." The voice on the other end is quiet but firm, and the call ends with a click.

  "Goddammit!" I toss the phone across the room where it lands on the bed.

  I've been trying like hell to find out whose heart I've got in my chest. I don't know why, but I've got to know.

  I've got to know.

  And no one will tell me.

  So as much as I hate to do it, there's only one person left to call. So I call him.

  "Hello?"

  "Howdy, Larry."

  "Lachlan. To what do I owe this pleasure?" Larry Carter, family attorney, and well-paid bulldog.

  "I need a favor, Larry."

  "Well I can't make any promises, but tell me what you need and I'll see what I can do. Usual rates apply, of course."

  "No shit." I hesitate, blow out a breath. "I need to know who my organ donor was."

  "I--what?" This is the first time I've ever heard Larry caught off-guard. As the go-to attorney for several ultra-wealthy clients, he's used to all sorts of requests.

  "The heart in my chest. I need to know who the donor was. No one will tell me, and if anyone can get the information it's you."

  "I'll see what I can do. It can't be that hard to get that kind of information. I'll get back to you."

  "Thanks."

  "Sure thing." A pause. "How have you been--?"

  "I'm fine, Larry. Just find out who the donor was, yeah?"

  "Yes, sir. Shouldn't take long."

  "Good." I hang up, and go out on the deck.

  I'm drinking Perrier. I'm drinking a lot of Perrier these days. I gave Gregor all my Lagavulin, and Mom watched me do it. She searched the house herself, made sure I was really giving it all away. I'm not sure what to think about this, because I never thought of myself as an alcoholic. I didn't drink all day every day, and rarely to wild excess.

  Okay...maybe that's a lie.

  I did drink a lot, now that I think about it.

  Most days.

  By noon, most days.

  To blackout, some days.

  I never saw a reason to quit, though, you know? I was gonna die anyway, so what did it matter if it was liver failure or heart failure? Something was going to give out, and it was gonna be my heart. So might as well drink up while I could.

  But now that it matters, now that I'm aware of the importance of not drinking, it's really, really fucking hard to quit. I want a drink every single goddamn moment of every single goddamn day. I'm a fucking mess. I don't smoke, never have. Don't drink, now, because I can't. I might be able to handle a drink or two. Maybe. But what if I can't? What if I'm a real-deal alkie, like I take a drink and somehow I'm wasted, with no in between? The what if, that's the fucking worst.

  No, not having any outlet is the worst.

  I don't actually do anything. I'm not skilled at
anything except sailing, drinking, and fucking. And the problem is, if I set out to do the first, I'll end up doing the second. And right now, as odd as it feels to realize this, I'm not in any place to be doing the third.

  I'm lonely as hell, of course. I've never been alone before--I don't know how. But here I am, alone, all day, every day.

  I run a lot. Up the beach a few miles and back. Swim in the frigid water. I read a lot of books--I'm catching up on the classics I never read by not going to college.

  I don't have a talent.

  I don't have a trade.

  I don't have a skill.

  I don't have...anything worthwhile.

  I am no one.

  Goddamn you, Astrid, for putting the thought in my head: You are wrong about one thing, Lock: the only true measure of a person is what they do with their life.

  Now I can't forget that shit, and I can't stop realizing, time and again, over and over, that it's the truth, and the truth in this case inculpates me.

  What have I done with my life? Not a goddamn thing.

  What am I worth? Not a goddamn thing.

  I mean, financially I'm worth a lot. Mom wrangled back the shares I sold all those years ago, and recently signed them back to me. So now I'm worth a fuck-ton of money again.

  Super cool.

  But...what do I do with it?

  Funny how life works. Live like I'm dying, because I am, and enjoy every moment, knowing it's coming to an end all too soon. But now that I have a future in front of me I hate myself, I hate every moment of my life. Legit, I have zero self-esteem.

  No direction.

  No plan.

  No reason for existing.

  Before, I had a reason: live like I'm dying, as that old Tim McGraw song goes.

  Now--alive and not dying, I have no reason.

  *

  "Lachlan, Larry here." There's a rustling of paper on the other end of the line. "I have some information for you."

  "Great. Let's hear it."

  "The donor was a man named Oliver James. A doctor, specifically a surgeon who worked for Doctors Without Borders. Died in a car accident on the PCH. He was thirty-six. Married, no children. His parents are listed as his next of kin, and they're actually in your area. Down in Kneeland, or thereabouts."

  He gives me an address, and tells me to give him a call if I need anything else. I don't know what I'll find. I don't even know what I'm looking for. I just know I can't stay here anymore. I need...I don't even know. But if I can find something out about this Oliver James, whose heart beats in my chest, maybe I'll...

  Maybe I'll what? I don't even know.

  I don't question the need to leave, though. I toss a backpack and some camping gear into the back of my truck and head down to Kneeland.

  *

  Damn...this is backwoods. Real backwoods. Not much here but ranches, farms, and old houses on rolling hills tucked back into quiet old-growth forests.

  Even after I find the correct county road, it takes me another thirty minutes of driving before I spot the mailbox with the right house number. I pull into a long, winding, dusty driveway, which in turn leads me way, way back into the wooded hills. Rolling fields behind, hundred-foot-tall trees towering ahead, swaying in a gentle breeze. I've got the windows open so I can smell the air, taste the fine grit of the dirt road, and hear the crunch of my tires.

  The house itself is a tiny little place, ramshackle, probably a good hundred years old, maybe more. Smoke curls up from the chimney, even in the summer. Little screened-in porch, an old white Silverado with a rusted rear bumper parked at an angle on the grass near the front door. Pole barn out back, off to the right, and a stable with an attached split-rail corral on the left. A couple of splotchy horses graze quietly along one corner, the kind that are white with big brown or red spots. Paints, maybe? I don't know much about horses.

  I park behind the Silverado and hop out. Of course, in these parts you can hear visitors coming from a mile away and by the time they pull up you're waiting for them at the front door.

  He's old. Seventies, eighties maybe. Tall, straight, strong-looking, the kind of man who'd once cut a hell of a figure and still does, even now. White hair combed straight back, piercing, deep-set brown eyes. Hand on a knobby, gnarled walking stick.

  I approach slowly. "Hey."

  "Help you, son? Ain't likely you're lost, around here."

  "No, sir. I'm not lost."

  "Then what'cha want? I ain't buyin' nothin', and I got plenty of Jesus."

  I rub my hand through my hair; it's grown out, as have my whiskers. No point in looking fine since no one's looking at me but me and, lately, I don't give a shit. "There's no good way to come at this, sir, so I'll just say it straight--"

  "Always best, I figger. Beat around the bush, you're likely to scare out a snake."

  "My name is Lachlan Montgomery."

  "Fancy name."

  "Yeah, I guess. I was born with a congenital heart defect, and I was told I would likely not live past thirty because of it."

  "Sorry to hear that. What's it got to do with me?"

  I sigh. Ornery old bastard, ain't he? "It caught up with me, about six months ago. I died, and they brought me back to life on the table. I wasn't likely to last long, because I've got a really rare blood type which made it nearly impossible for me to get a transplant."

  His gaze narrows; he's starting to suss out where I'm going with this. "Son, get to it."

  "Your son, Oliver--"

  I don't get another syllable out. He's on me, shoving me backward, pressing the thick walking stick across my throat, pinning me against the hood of his truck. "No, son. You don't want to come up on my property talking about my son. You just don't wanna do it."

  "Sir, I just--"

  He lets me up, grabs me by the shirtsleeve and shoves me toward my truck. "No. I know where you're going, and I don't wanna fuckin' hear it. He's gone and that's that. You best get the hell out of here before my wife comes out. You upset her, there'll be hell to pay. Hear me? Get gone."

  "I just wanted to know what he was like."

  "He was a goddamn hero, that's what he was like. Wasn't a better man this side of heaven. Saved lives every single damn day. That's what my Oliver was like. Now go."

  I slide into my truck. Start the engine, let the diesel knock around for a minute. Breathe, keep it together. I hear knuckles on my window.

  The old man, rubbing an arthritic knuckle against his forehead. "I may have gone off a bit, and I do apologize."

  I shake my head. "No, sir. It was unexpected and unwelcome. I'm the one who should be apologizing. It's just...since the transplant, I--" I stop, shake my head again. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll go."

  He scratches at a lined, weathered cheek, eyes me sidelong. "You're looking for something."

  "Yeah."

  "Ain't gonna find it here. He never lived here." A pause, a thoughtful look. "Keep looking, son. Never know what you might find out there, you look hard enough."

  I don't know what that means.

  "Thanks, Mr. James," I say. "Have a nice day."

  "You too, son."

  I wave as I swing the truck around and head out of Kneeland.

  I don't know where I'm going next, but it's not back north, back to Trinidad.

  Once my cell shows enough reception to make a call, I dial Gregor. He answers on the third ring. "Lock, how can I help you today?"

  "I'm leaving, Gregor. I need you to close the place up for me."

  A long silence. "Sorry to see you go, but I get it. I'll take care of it for you."

  "Thanks, Gregor."

  "No problem."

  Click.

  I drive for a few hours, heading steadily south.

  A thought strikes me, and I use bluetooth to dial Larry.

  "Lachlan."

  "Hey, Larry. Oliver James's parents didn't want to talk. So I need something else. You said he was married?"

  "Yeah. To...um..." papers shuffling-- "Niall James. Thirty-
three. Worked with Oliver in MSF."

  "MSF?"

  "Yeah, Medicins sans Frontieres. It's a French organization, the name translates to what we call it, Doctors Without Borders."

  "Where is she?"

  "Looks like..." more papers shuffling, "Ardmore, Oklahoma."

  "Oklahoma. All right. Thanks, Larry."

  "What are you hoping to--?"

  "Hell if I know, Larry." I hang up.

  I pull over and put Ardmore, Oklahoma into the GPS. Turns out Ardmore is on the border with Texas, a long, long way from here.

  Good. A road trip sounds perfect.

  *

  Fuck road trips. Two days in and the monotony of the endless blacktop is getting to me.

  Long driving trips can be the loneliest damn thing on the planet. At least on a boat, you have the sea to keep you company; you're busy all the time trimming the sails, and watching the wind, and keeping an eye on the wheel and the currents and the skies. Maybe spot a pod of dolphins or a whale now and again. But driving? It's boring and hypnotic. Nothing but the radio, nothing but the endless yellow and white lines, the blacktop, farms and desert and prairie and a whole bunch of nothing ahead, and even more nothing behind.

  There's nothing to do but think.

  Which leads nowhere good, just endless mental forays into the Land of Regret. I relive the last twelve or thirteen years of my life; there are some good memories, of course. I don't really regret any of it, per se. I just...I don't know.

  What did any of it mean?

  You face death, and you tend to get a dose of perspective. Could I have done anything different? What if I'd taken the approaching end of my life as a motivation to accomplish something, to becoming something, to doing something worthwhile? Where would I have ended up?

  No way to know.

  I think of Astrid a lot, actually, of her sense of purpose, and her thinly disguised disapproval of my privileged life of idle luxury and ridiculous excess. I didn't do anything, and that was anathema to someone like her. She used me for a good time, and she wouldn't have spared me another thought under any other circumstances. Surprisingly, it hurts more than I'd expect it to, knowing Astrid wouldn't have bothered with me, except to get the O out of me. I was a night of feeling good for her and nothing more.