Well, look at the bright side: at least I'm not enjoying a mandatory state-sponsored stay in a jail cell like that damned thief. Though, let's be honest, the loss of that bag was a physical ache in my chest. All those gold bricks, all that beautiful, untaxed cash—gone, likely into an evidence locker where it would be "misplaced" by someone with a badge and better luck than me.
Looking at the nurse, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I was "safe" from the tactical squad, sure, but now I was strapped to a chair that had more sensors than a space shuttle. It's not exactly like I could just clear my throat and say, "Sorry ma'am, this is all a big misunderstanding; I was just practicing for my community theater's production of The Rabid Golden Retriever." That would probably land me right back in police custody, or worse, in a padded room with even more straps. And let me tell you, this high-tech recliner isn't really comfortable. It has the lumbar support of a torture rack.
Glancing at the watch on the wall, the ticking felt like a countdown to my doom. It was almost 4:00 AM. The holiday was almost over, and soon I'll be going back to school—or at least, I should be. Instead of cramming for finals, I was currently the star attraction of a psych ward. Now I wonder what I was going to do with my life in here. Would they let me major in Basket Weaving? Could I minored in Delusional Barking? Baah, I need to leave this place soon. My GPA can't take another hit, and neither can my sanity.
Suddenly, the sterile silence of the hallway was murdered by the sound of hurried footsteps coming from right behind the door. They were sharp, rhythmic, and carried the unmistakable weight of someone who was about to make my life significantly more complicated.
Soon I heard a voice I was quite familiar with—a voice that usually preceded a lecture or a very expensive bill.
"Are you sure he is in there?" the voice demanded, sharp enough to cut glass.
"Yes, madam," replied the also familiar, trembling voice of the nurse.
Damn, not this. I sucked in a cold breath, my lungs feeling like they were filled with liquid nitrogen. If she is here, then my parents are about to find out exactly what happened to their "gifted" son. I could already see my father's face—that look of profound disappointment that usually made me wish I'd actually been born a dog.
Almost as if a mockery to my silent plea, the door clicked open with a mechanical hiss. An all-too-familiar girl walked in, her heels clicking against the linoleum like a death march. It was my girlfriend—at least, she was until she wasn't. Our relationship didn't end with a bang; it ended with a missed calendar notification.
Guess what happened? She chose another guy over me. Why? Because I missed her birthday party. A cardinal sin in the world of romance, apparently.
Why did I miss it? Because I was sleeping throughout the day like a hibernating bear.
Why was I sleeping? Because I was awake throughout the night, fueled by caffeine and poor life choices.
Why was I awake? Because I wanted to be among the first to play the new open-world VR game that just came out. I had a digital kingdom to defend, dragons to slay, and a legendary sword to grind for. Priority-wise, a birthday party with lukewarm punch and small talk couldn't compete with a 4K fantasy realm.
Why? Because... because... well, there is a lot of "why" to a lot of reasons. It's probably a recursive loop somewhere in my DNA. Who cares? What mattered was that we've broken up, and now she was probably sent here by my dad to check up on me.
Why didn't he come himself? Because he was currently in only God knows where, doing... only God knows what. My father's job was essentially being a professional ghost with a bank account.
The girl—Stacy—stood at the foot of my bed-chair-contraption, her arms crossed, looking at me like I was a particularly confusing specimen under a microscope. Her eyes darted from the straps on my wrists to the neural sensors on my temples.
Okay, enough with the melancholy. I'm not actually going mad, am I? I mean, I was barking at specialized police units ten hours ago, but that was a tactical maneuver! A masterpiece of survival! Anyway, back to the present.
"Jim!" she yelled, much to herself than to me, her voice echoing off the white tiles. "What the hell are you doing here?"
I stared at her. I really didn't want to explain that I was currently a "patient" because I'd tried to steal gold from a glowing, mechanical thief while pretending to be a Great Dane. It lacked a certain... dignity.
Looking at her through squinted eyes, I concluded I wasn't ready to banter with this turncoat of a girl. She had traded me in for a guy who probably showed up to parties on time and didn't have a "woofing" incident on his permanent record. Besides... I'm still mad, aren't I?