McCoy Mason leaned his crutches next to his duffle bag and sat down on the bench just outside Houston Methodist Hospital’s main exit.

If a cab came by, he might get in.

If he had any idea where he was going.

If he had enough money to get there.

Three “ifs” seemed a long shot. He decided to sit on the bench until a few of his brain cells thawed. After three weeks in the hospital, his mind had slipped to frog IQ.

On the bright side, the sun was shining and the wind was low. Except for the fact he was headed nowhere, life wasn’t all bad. Maybe he was just confused, maybe mixed up, maybe disoriented. Definitely handicapped. Broken. Homeless. Alone.

McCoy decided to stop thinking. He was running out of adjectives.

“I’m not lost, just nowhere to go,” he said aloud. “Not brain dead, just wounded.”

He almost smiled remembering what his crazy dad used to say when his mom suggested a vacation. ‘It don’t cost nothin’ to go nowhere.’

Maybe he should stay here and save what little money he had left.

McCoy shrugged. Nowhere seemed as good as anywhere to go.

Mom must have not agreed with his dad, because one night she left with all their savings and never came back from vacation. Dad got up the next morning and went to work and never mentioned her again.

McCoy looked down at his new Wranglers. The nurse had to cut them to get one leg over the cast. He’d thought of yelling to cut off the plaster instead, but he doubted she’d do that. He could hop around on one leg, but he only owned one pair of jeans.

Right now, the break just below his knee was the least of his troubles. One broken bone seemed no big deal, considering his other problems. First, he’d had a head injury everyone thought would kill him after he’d totaled his Mustang on Interstate 45. He lived, but the car died.

Breanna Bell, his fiancée, stopped coming around after three days. She’d said staring at his bruised, broken body was too much to bare.

She should have seen it from his side of the fence.

Two days later, his new boss called and told McCoy he’d lost the job that he had moved to Houston for, and a week later his landlord texted that the apartment he’d signed a lease on was no longer available.

Last, Breanna left town, taking everything but one duffle bag with his work clothes stuffed in the bottom and the one outfit he’d bought the day of the accident. Jeans, a western shirt, and a Stetson hat.