Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

him.
    "That's the truth," Alan muttered and sat up yawning. "Is she all right?" he asked.
    "A few stitches," the doctor said. "You'll need to watch her for—"
    "Red lines, blood poisoning, yes." Alan waved a hand of painted fingernails. "Did I hear the word coffee ?"
    I pointed. He ambled off with another yawn.
    "Sorry, Doctor. You were saying?"
    "It's all in the care instructions. I'm sure you college boys can read. The nurse will bring Mrs. Hille out in a few minutes." He walked away. I resisted the urge to go smack Alan in the back of the head for being a twit.
    Dawn broke before I stumbled off to my room, Alan safely delivered to an ugly apartment block, Mallory texted with reassurance, and Lilia snugly tucked in. I was less than appreciative of that second dawn since I'd seen my bed, and closed the blinds on it.
    Despite Lilia's protests, in the morning— also known as three hours later— I set up a rotation of her friends to look after her. I made it to all my classes, catching quick naps between in my truck. I got myself to work without falling asleep behind the wheel. I noticed when Alan walked past the gas station again, a little earlier, a little slower, and not smoking. I made it home and went to bed.
    By the end of the week I had the correlation. The nights Alan walked by after eleven, he smoked. Maybe it had been a rough night at Quikburger, and he felt he needed it. When he left work shortly after ten, he didn't have a cigarette. Judging by my limited sample, anyway.
    On Saturday I picked up an extra shift for a sick coworker, and Alan walked by smoking as I flicked off the lights. I wondered if he worked full-time too.
    I thought entirely too much about Alan that week. I watched him every night, from the moment he came into sight until he was gone. I wondered about his fear of dogs, and his sharp humor, and sometimes when I wasn't guarding my thinking, I wondered what his lip gloss tasted like.
    The next group meeting was Tuesday night at the Mug Shot. I got there first, sat by the wall again, and when they came the rest of the group took their same places. Alan's hair was black with one blue streak. His fingernails were black, and his eyes lined and painted like an ancient Egyptian's. He wore another blazer, another rainbow T-shirt, and an old pair of jeans held up with a belt. I delivered Lilia's care package of snickerdoodles baked with only a little assistance the night before, and he gave up one of them for the rest of us to share. We looked at the information Tania and Mallory had come up with, looked at Alan's rough sketch of a T-script, and talked about how horror movies invoked the creepy. When the place was most crowded, someone spilled icewater on Alan's back, but I didn't see who did it. Four letter-jacketed jocks thought it was funny, though, and only laughed harder when Mallory snarled at them.
    On Thursday as I drove from school to work, my phone rang with Mallory's ringtone. I had a few minutes, so I pulled over to answer.
    "Lukas, hey!" Mallory was always so happy to talk to me. It was nice. "Listen— Saturday is History is Great day. Well, Jim Streeter and Family present a Celebration of Time and Place. I like Alan's name better. Anyway, they'll have Civil War re-enactors! Alan wants to see if we can get some footage, but I have to go to a wedding. Can you make it?"
    "Hang on," I said, grabbing my planner. "Saturday— yes, there's nothing on Saturday that I can't move."
    "Great! Alan will meet you outside the student union— no, wait, the Mug Shot— at nine. Plan for the day, Lukas— he's as much of a slave driver as you are."
    "In that case, let me talk to him. I'll prep better if I know what he's hoping to get."
    "Can't, sorry, he's not here. I'm acting on my own initiative."
    Oh yeah, that was going to end well. "Mallory, why are you setting him up? You know he doesn't like me."
    "I'm doing you both a favor," she said and I could imagine her grin. "If it's something I do to him, he can complain. If it's something he does for the good of the project, he has to be stoic and long-suffering. Believe me, Lukas, you'd rather be around complaining than martyr."
    "Remind me not to trust you too much," I told her.
    "Will do! Bye, Lukas!"
    Saturday was chilly with a brisk wind and dark but fast-moving clouds. I found Alan standing outside the Mug Shot at nine, and he did not look happy about it. I'd dressed for a rugged day, in my work boots and warm layers. He wore the black