Freight Hopper

His eyes are terribly sore, and as he pries them open, a rough cough bursts from his chest. He hears shuffling, but his eyes have yet to focus. Gently, he rubs the sleep away, but jumps in shock of his surroundings. He is in a dim, well kept room. The walls are peeling just slightly, but the furniture is nice and gives a calming atmosphere. He jumps again when a young woman enters the room. Her chocolate hair is long and flows just past her breasts, and her eyes are a piercing teal that Frank can see even from a distance.

“Hi,” she smiles softly, “Nice to see you’re awake.” She raises a steaming cup to his lips before he’s a chance to reply, and the warmth of what must be strawberry tea alleviates the aching pain in his throat; instinctively, he motions for another sip, and the young woman smiles again, once more placing the cup at his lips. He takes a large gulp, and she pulls away.

“Easy there,” she says, putting the cup beside her.

Frank coughs for the second time, but with a tad less irritation this time, “W-where am I? W-who’re you?” He notices for the first time, that he is shivering. The cold is gripping him like hands upon his throat, but he’s covered in multiple blankets. The young woman stands and fetches another blanket from across the room before answering.

“My name is Kamrina. You’re in my apartment in Newark,” she soothes, “My brother and I found you in an alley just when the storm started to hit.”

“Storm?”

Kamrina nods, giving him another sip of tea, “Are you warmer?” she asks.

Frank nods, absently, looking around once more. He coughs again, and the pain in his chest is almost unbearable, but he says nothing. Kamrina gives him a sympathetic look and another sip of tea.

“My mom should be here soon. She’s a nurse. She went-”

She is cutoff by the door swinging open, and a woman emerging whom appears to be wearing a blouse that looks direct from ’65, fuzzy green socks, and a pair of embroidered jeans. “Good Morning!” She says brightly.

“Morning Mom.” Kamrina replies, “This is my mom, Judy.”

“Hello young man,” her smile is twin to Kamrina’s, “And if you don’t mind, may we know your name?”

Slightly taken aback, he murmurs, “F-frank.”

“Well, Frank,” her tone is maternal and commanding, but there is something wonderful about her. Something that makes Frank long for the past; a feeling Frank’s only experienced once before, long, long ago. This woman is caring, loving, concerned. This woman is a mother. A real mother. “I’m not going to ask you why my children found you in the middle of an alleyway during a snowstorm in Jersey, at least not right now.” There is a lovely twinkle in her eyes, “For now you need rest, but I do need to know how you are feeling...?”

“Well, um...my chest hurts. And it hurts when I cough. And I’m a little nauseous...” he answers hesitantly.

“He had the chills earlier, too.” Kamrina supplies.

“Right, well, then my suspicions were true. My kit is in the kitchen; get it for me, will you dear?” she asks Kamrina, who is gone in a flash. Judy places her hand on Frank’s clammy forehead, and purses her lips. “I’m almost positive you have a mild case of pneumonia. Nothing too serious, you won’t need hospitalization or anything, love,” she clams at Frank’s worried expression, “But I’m insisting we keep you here until you’re better. Unless, there is someone we could call...?”

Frank shakes his head, “No,” he tells her solemnly, “No, there’s no one.”

Judy responds with a simple nod, seeming as though this is something she has already guessed. When Kamrina comes back in, a doctors kit in hand, Frank is poked and prodded by Judy, who’s touch is wonderfully tender, so he really doesn’t mind at all. His temperature is taken, and comes in at 101.3, which makes Judy frown, but only slightly. She tucks him in, says she’ll be back later with medicine, and reminds Kamrina to keep him hydrated. With a quick kiss on her daughter’s cheek she’s off to wherever, and Frank and Kamrina are left alone. Frank gives a ragged cough, and Kamrina makes him another cup of tea and a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup. He takes it, gratefully.

“So...what were you doing in an alley during a snowstorm?” She asks.

Frank sighs, not really knowing how to answer, “Look, Kamrina-”

“Call me Kamry.” She insists.

“Okay, Kamry,” he corrects, “I seriously appreciate what you and your family are doing, though I’m not exactly sure why you did it; I don’t know how to explain my...circumstance.” He tells her, “It’s sort of a long story.”

She grins, “That’s all right. Mom’s not letting you leave until you’re at top health again, so we have time for long stories.” Frank can’t help but give a tiny smile. He likes Kamry, he really does; she has a warm soul, Frank can tell. What does he tell her though? “You don’t have to tell me everything.”

Frank considers for a long while, eating and drinking slowly, Kamry waiting patiently at his side, watching, studying. It begins with a sentence. A sentence that isn’t really even coherent, but Frank has to start somewhere. That sentence turns into one more, which turns into one more, and so on, and before he can catch himself, he is offering his sanity, his protection, his heart out on a platter, waiting to be stomped, cut, beaten. There are no tears, Frank’s no room left for crying, but it is he, his soul, right there, out in the open as if he has nothing to fear. But there is everything to fear, except he can’t seem to stop. He’s talking and rambling and tripping over his words, and everything is spilling out all at once; all the while Kamry is sitting, listening, patient and calm. Pretending to care, Frank thinks. But no, that isn’t right. Frank can see the emotion in her eyes. He can see the sorrow and pain she is feeling for him. He has no notion as to why this young, radiant, smart woman has chosen to care about him, of all people, but she has. And at that moment, it is enough for Frank. Enough to make him feel worth something again. Enough to make him feel strong.