Patrick awoke to find himself on Kevin's futon in Apartment 983, Washington Heights, Baltimore. The last few days of his life seemed a blur. Earlier that week, he had awoken from a what had seemed like a long, long sleep full of pleasant dreams to find himself sprawled out stark naked on a stainless steel table in an austere apartment lined with shelves of ominous-looking chemicals.
Kevin had told him everything. He filled in every detail, from the plunge off the bridge to the escape from the morgue, and from his arrival in Washington Heights to the burning of powdered intestines and herbs. It was surreal coming back to life, having departed the dreamlike bliss of heaven.
Patrick sat up, rubbing his eyes. He was wearing Kevin's blue Johns Hopkins sweatshirt and an old pair of Kevin's jeans as he had no clothes of his own. Pushing the blanket aside, Patrick stood up and strode into the kitchen where Kevin had begun to make waffles. Eggo waffles.
"Can we please eat something other than Eggo waffles for breakfast? They're horribly freezer burnt," Patrick pleaded.
"I guess we can go to the bakery, if you insist," Kevin responded.
Patrick waited for Kevin to grab his wallet and then opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Across the corridor, a sign reading "FOR RENT" hung on the door of Apartment 982. Patrick, unaware of the apartment's previous owner, briefly noted the sign, but Kevin didn't seem to notice it at all.
The pair ambled down the corridor to the stairwell, which they descended at a rate much slower than Kevin usually did. Passing through the dingy, cramped lobby, Patrick and Kevin stepped out onto the street. The first thing that caught their eyes was an ambulance across the street in the park, surrounded by an ever-growing throng of Washington Heights residents. They watched as the form of a small boy, drenched in blood and sunlight, was lifted into the back of the ambulance.
Patrick turned to Kevin. He could see the glow of the light bulb that had suddenly switched on in Kevin's head glinting through his eyes.
"I know what you're thinking, and it's a bad idea," Patrick admonished. "You did it once, and once is enough. C'mon. Let's go get some breakfast."
Shoulders hunched in disappointment, Kevin followed Patrick's lead and turned toward the bakery.
Pulling the door open, Kevin stepped inside the bakery, followed by Patrick. Kevin was taken aback to find the hulking form of a seemingly-hostile man behind the counter. Maria was nowhere to be found.
Pushing this thought to the back of his mind, Kevin asked Patrick what he wanted to eat.
"How about a chocolate chip muffin?" Patrick asked.
"Good luck with that," Kevin replied. "How about a bagel? Or a...bagel?"
"A bagel sounds fine," Patrick sighed. "Do they have -"
"No, just plain. Don't even bother trying to find variety here," Kevin interrupted him.
Bagels in hand, they departed the bakery. They noticed that the crowd surrounding the ambulance had dispersed and people were now milling about the streets. As he was covered in scars and stitches, Patrick would've normally stood out walking down the streets of a crowded city, but in Washington Heights, even the most bizarre is commonplace. Nevertheless, he felt self-conscious about the dark lines tracing his limbs and converging at the nape of his neck.
Upon their arrival at Apartment 983, Kevin finally noticed the sign on Maria's door. A pang of sadness gripped his heart as he thought of how he would never see her again. But then, glancing into Patrick's eyes, he was comforted by the presence of his longtime friend. One friend lost, another regained.
The pair of friends entered Apartment 983, each relieved by the prospect of escaping the hellhole that is Washington Heights, and each reflecting on their lives together, past and future.
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