He pulled off the road near the Stardust Inn and put the car in park. The steering wheel was slick with blood. He wiped his hands on his jeans and looked at his shirt: soaked red. His nose was still bleeding. He lifted the front hem of his thermal and twisted it into a coil and stuck the coil into his nostril. Then he tipped his head back and swallowed the thick stuff running down his throat. He sat that way for a minute. A wave of darkness came over him, and he waited for it to pass.

When the bleeding slowed, he pulled the coil from his nose. He got the duffel from behind the seat and took out a clean shirt and the box of bandages and put them in his backpack. He could feel a cough in his lungs. Nausea. Do not throw up.

He shut off the engine and opened the car door and got out, holding the backpack in front of his shirt. He checked the street. Gray daylight. The pavement wet with snow. Nobody coming. He started toward the Stardust.

A yellow cat crossed the street. It stopped. Then trotted away.

He waited until a couple approached the door and then slipped in behind them. He went down a dim hallway. Blood dripped from his nose onto the floral carpet. He found a housekeeping cart by one of the rooms and took a fistful of washcloths, a towel, and a spray bottle of bleach cleaner. He looked for aspirin or Tylenol. He didn’t find any, but he did come across little sugar packets, for the coffee machines. He stuck a few in his pocket and searched the cart’s other side. No medicine. He picked up a plastic cup and unzipped his backpack and put in everything. He roamed the halls until he found a bathroom. He leaned on the door and went inside.

Raw sunlight fell through a small window. He spat bloody dribble into the sink. He dumped out the backpack onto the counter and put Ava’s calculus book back inside. He arranged the rest—shirt and bandages, washcloths, spray bottle, plastic cup—on the counter. He peeled off his bloodstained thermal and threw it in the garbage. After turning the faucet to cold, he wet the washcloths and set about cleaning his face. Fresh pain stunned him. His lip pulsed like a water pump. He swabbed blood from his neck and chest, then patted himself dry and put on the clean shirt. Wind rattled the windowpane. A vacuum turned on somewhere.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw his lip was still leaking blood. He leaned over the counter and studied the gashes. Deep, already swollen.