He called the diner, croaked an apology, and said he wouldn’t be coming in. Then he grabbed a crumpled hoodie and walked to the clinic down the block. The waiting room was filled with bleary-eyed clubbers and elderly locals. Vincent took a seat somewhere in between—neither one nor the other.
To his left sat a girl in fishnets clutching a bottle of water like it held her soul. To his right, an old man leaned heavily on his cane, his daughter filling out forms. Vincent glanced at his own hands—veined, spotted, no longer quick to heal. Something in him shifted.