My Brains!!! ep, 4

"M'okay. You all right? You sound a little rushed."

"No, not at all. Just came back from the… the restroom."

"Oh, so you're back at your desk? I just called you there."

"No! I mean, I'm not at my desk. I'm out. Outside."

"What are you doing outside?"

"Just taking a walk. Y'know, exercise."

"You're not smoking again, are you?"

"No. You know I can't smoke anymore." It was another condition of my release. No stimulants of any kind. I couldn't even drink a Coke or a cup of coffee.

"So you're not stressing?"

"Nooooooo. Meeee? Why would I need to stress? I've got a great life. I've got a great wife. And family. Hey, you said I needed to get an exercise regimen." I fishtailed around a corner and stomped on the gas.

I saw him. Had I not seen him before he wouldn't have caught my eye. A hot dog vendor on a bike, complete with one of those oval hats. Uh, on his head, not the bike.

"Well, okay. You could stand to be more active. Go ahead and enjoy the outside. Make sure you drink water, 'mkay?"

"Got a bottle right here with me."

"Okay. We love you."

"Love you guys too." The call disconnected.

Wait a minute.

We love you?

Why did she say that? Of course, I knew my wife and daughter loved me, but why was she speaking on our daughter's behalf, especially if she weren't there?

I called back.

"Hello?"

"Hey, babe. Do you have Sydney?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"Just wondering." The possibilities of what may have been going on flooded through my mind. Did they know already? Did they have Nancy pick up my daughter so I wouldn't? Were they forcing her to do anything? Were they eating my pumpkin pie?

I looked over at the vendor, doing no more than the posted limit of twenty-five miles per hour. His speed matched mine and I smiled at him. He pretended not to notice.

My first thought was to sideswipe him, race home, kill anyone in my house not my wife and daughter, and run away with my family, living off the coin collection I'd had since I was ten.

Except my coin collection was worthless. Twenty years collecting coins of American presidents that had been minted in Barbados. I'd been crushed.

No. I had to come up with a plan B. Something so brilliant they would laugh they had ever suspected me of relapsing. But not so brilliant that if they didn't suspect me, such a plan would actually cause them to be suspicious.

I'd been subconsciously tapping my finger against my phone for the last few minutes when I glanced down and saw what my hand was actually doing.

My hand had been typing a text message.

I read part of it, weaving around a big, powder-blue Cadillac driven by an equally blue-haired old woman who was eye-level with the center of the steering wheel: