"Don't listen to that old quack," Sierra said. "Henry, whether it was the right place or not, what you did back there was still pretty brave."

"Pretty stupid more like."

"Shut up, Rum," Sierra scolded. "You too Alex, you saved a man yesterday, both of you did. It would have been nice to find out who he was, even if it wasn't the right guy."

"Of course Alex went in there, he's a suicide waiting to happen. You wanted to die didn't you? That's why you went in there. Oh, but at least you knew what you were doing." Rum pointed and waved his fist at Henry. "You on the other hand, that was just stupid! You can't walk down the street without running out of breath! You really thought you could do something to help? You're all just stupid."

Old Rum stormed on ahead. Henry simply eased his head down to hide disappointment.

"Wow. It's like he actually cares," Sierra said.

"You can tell?" Alex asked.

"It took a while, but yeah."

The three of them watched on at the wise old man, who stumbled on in front a little bit. He stopped beside an open bin after something caught his eye. Plundering its contents, he pulled out a glass bottle. Slugging it back, he spoke back to them: "Whiskey. Nice."

To the average person the act might seem distasteful, but it really was a fringe form of consumer savings. That is, unless it turned out to be the wrong kind of yellow liquid.

Sierra caught up to him and took the bottle with good intentions, much to Rum's displeasure. He shrugged it off as though he'd taken his fill, or intended to retake it later, one way or the other.

Car horns honked along the stretch. Impatient drivers were taking definitive action against the dreaded snowplough, shouting insults and waving fists. Few of them seemed to realise if the snow plough moved aside there'd be too much snow to travel.

"I hate motorists," Alex said. "Cars are too much hassle."

"How unusual," Sierra said, "a writer who happens to be lazy and a know it all."

Alex motioned to counter with a quip of his own, but froze for an interruption.

A crash sounded. Two nearby cars collided with one another. It looked like a rear hit, from bumper to bonnet. A few surrounding drivers got out to stare mindlessly at the scene, along with pedestrians on the sidewalk. Sierra and Rum pushed through the gathering crowd so they could see as well.

Gags of coughing sounded from the struck vehicle. Through a haze of smoke, a woman climbed from her car and fell to the ground. She screamed on landing, cradling her chest for an invisible lesion. She bled from her head and a little from the mouth. But there was no greater wound to be seen.

The motorist who crashed into her tried easing suffering with apologetic words. He scampered above her, ineptly calling for someone who could help. He made an attempt to rest her against the car, but jerked away as though dropping hot coal. She looked pregnant. At once his cries for help grew louder.

In time a voice answered. A man came hurdling immobile cars until landing by their side. From the way he asked questions and clutched a small medical pack he seemed to be a doctor. His stereotypical white clothes added leverage to the observation.

"It's okay, I'm a doctor," he said to the pregnant woman, loud enough for all to hear.

The moment he touched her she convulsed into a fit. It might have been the fear, the amount of blood, or a blow to her head causing it. She shook tremendously so she came close to rolling over.

"Damn," the doctor said. "I can't do anything like this."

The other driver peered down. "Should someone hold her steady?"

"No. She obviously has some kind of internal injury. We can't put pressure on it. We need her to calm down. In this state she'll only injure her child."

Sierra watched on, nibbling on her thumb like a substitute for popcorn. "Poor woman ... Poor baby. I hope she gets better."

Henry stood with a thoughtful frown. A slowly ticking timer counted down in his head. He might have an answer. He thought he had an answer. He could help. Slipping hands into pockets, he took out the medication he received earlier. One pill remained.

He presented it to the doctor. "Would this help?"

On his knees, the doctor gazed at the pill case like a gun to his head. He stopped in his work as though nothing was there.

The doctor took the pill case, pouring it to his hand. "Those are ... Where did you get these? Did a doctor give you this?"

Henry nodded, unsure of himself. "When I was in hospital."

"You have to go back!"

The woman kicked violently. The doctor addressed it by holding her arms down. He needed a clear shot to pop the pill in her mouth. Upon dropping it in, she settled within seconds. All the aggression faded and she lay there, eyes open, still blinking. Her pupils moved as though following movements she couldn't make out. Those pills, whatever they were, had worked.

Henry gulped. He remembered back to his experience on the gurney, what it was like for him and how she must feel now fully conscious yet being unable to move. At the time he didn't like being under the blanket, in darkness. Watching this woman try and make sense of her surroundings made him appreciate it more.

Henry gulped a second time. "Why do I have to go back to the hospital?"

The doctor worked hard to patch her up. "I think I got it," he said. "I can look after her here but someone has to call an ambulance."

At once the crowd became active, lifting cell phones to call the same number.

Against the bustle of noise, Henry cried again, "Why do I have to go back to the hospital!?" No use. The noise had taken over.

Henry let his futile efforts go. Right then, he noticed something he hadn't seen at first. He saw a grave similarity between this man and the doctor from the hospital. It was a fleeting moment, occurring when he rested to wipe his forehead. But it was there.

The doctor stopped all together. "This is all I can do here. I'll stay with her until the ambulance comes."

The driver who struck her hovered over. "You mean she's going to be all right? Thank you doctor. You saved her life. Not many people would help while off duty like that."

"I'm a doctor. I save lives. If I don't help a person in need then it's like I'm throwing someone to the wolves. This is my job." He smiled a clumsy half smile. "I suppose it's down to luck I was here. I'm usually in work by now, but my brother's shift was extended to care for a new patient. I'm his replacement so that means I had to come in late."

Henry froze, captivated by those words. His suspicions seemed settled. Time to ponder ceased when Sierra tugged him along.

"Show's over, Henry. We're still on the clock, remember?" she said leading the group away.

When the sounds of commotion faded into distance, Sierra asked Henry. "So, you usually carry pills like those around with you?"

"A doctor in the hospital gave them to me. I don't know what they're for but ... well, he said they relieve pain."

"And knock a person senseless, apparently."

"It ... did work, I guess." Henry shrugged, clueless. "I don't know what they're used for exactly but it did help the woman."

Alex frowned suspiciously. "The doctor gave you those pills and you took them without asking what they're for?"

"Well yeah, that's what I usually do when a doctor gives me medication. Anyway, I was nauseous after the fire. It hurts my head to try and remember what happened, so ... I'd like it if you dropped it."

Alex read deep into the worried look on his friend's face. The squashed up worry wrinkles on his brow indicated he'd greatly appreciate the matter dropped at once. Alex was never one for putting the personnel business of others up for show.

"Fine ... whatever. Forget it."

A cold blanket of shadow fell over the city. Streetlights flickered on earlier than normal, creating a false impression of dusk. In this onset of night the streets became ever more emptier.

The group marched on, all shivering, all wriggling their toes due to the slush in their boots. Given their sorry state and total lack of direction, calling quits for the day came to mind. These points, among others, brought Rum to a halt.

"I've had enough of this! We'll have a better chance searching while it's bright. We don't even know where we're going."

"We won't know any better tomorrow," Sierra said. "We may as well get a lead tonight and work on it tomorrow."

"But I'm hungry and cold now."

Alex eyed the old man, how he bundled into himself, stammering feet to keep his circulation going. "Calm down Rum, we don't need to have a plan. Every step no matter how frivolous has the potential to take a man closer to where he needs to be. Sometimes the random pointless things are more important than those you plan."

"Drop the Eastern medicine. Why do I need to be here then? Why am I standing on this path with no food and no drink? Tell me, why are we at this spot right now!?"

No reply came, only silence. The others stood staring upwards, eyes glazing straight over the old man. Baffled at their lack of acknowledgment Rum turned to inspect for himself, finding nothing of interest save a billboard on the side of a red bricked building. It depicted the badly worn image of a cartoon sumo-wrestler, grinning while holding up a Chinese brand bottle of liquor. It took the old dimwit a moment to notice those words at the bottom: for a taste of the orient come to Jack Matters' club and off-license. The address line followed.

Alex shrugged. "Case in point, old Rum."

"I hate you," Rum sniffed back.

Taking shortcuts through the more unsightly back-roads they arrived in the area foretold by the bill board. Surely they would find their guy in no time. Then again that theme had been running a while now.

Shivering tight into his green trench coat, old Rum released a sneeze. A string of snot dangling from his nose, he wiped it on his sleeve.

"Damn it's cold."

Sierra held her face in disgust. "Just hold it off till we're done. If you behave yourself I'll give your whiskey back."

He sneezed again. "Whoever used that bottle last probably had a cold."

"Or maybe pulling it from a bin has something to do with it," Alex stated.

"Chances are I caught it off you. You've been sick as a dog for weeks."

"I'm feeling better lately."

"Yeah, you haven't coughed since leaving the hospital. What did they give you? Give me some."

"They gave me pills to make it go away. I've only a few left and they're not for you."

"So everyone has their own private stash of pills now. Great, you've all gone turned into junkies while my back was turned. Man, that hospital's a joke." He sneezed. "Some food would re-energize me."

"Out of money," Sierra said.

"Or even if we got the bus..."

"Out of money."

"Out of money," Rum huffed. "When I was someone I had money."

"What did you do?" Sierra asked.

Rum propped up as if realising he spoke out loud. "What did I do? I ... gambled, with money. That's what I did. I gambled then hit low. Life's a bitch. I told you all that before."

"That's about all you've told. You don't talk about your old life much. A summary of fifty words or less is not explanation."

"Well you hardly ever ask much else."

"You always seem so intent on keeping it to yourself. Well ... go on then."

"Go on? Not much to say. I gambled and lost."

"But what about your family?"

"Blondie ... don't ask."

"You told me before you had a wife and kid. Don't you miss them?"

"They're dead ... like I told you before - an accident at work."

Alex frowned. "But you just said you were a gambler."

"Well ... I called it work. That's how much I loved gambling. Work-gambling, it's all the same to me. A day at the races was like a day at the office," Rum said, stuttering his way into an awkward laughter.

"And how pray-tell do you die at a race track?"

"Stranger things happen."

Sierra cupped her hands in anticipation. "Does that mean we get a story?"

"Yes Rum," Alex said. "Do give us a story."

"You cut that attitude, Alex. What freak jokes about something like this?"

"A very unconvinced freak. You don't believe my story but at least I'm capable of keeping it straight. You haven't even started yours and we're already bogged down with inconsistencies."

"Alex, drop the interrogator act for a while. I'm sure Rum won't mind clearing things up. Will you, Rum?" Sierra said.

Rum sighed. "You ain't gonna drop it are you?"

"Not until next time I feel like it."

"Fine ... if you want it that badly, I'll tell you a little. It'll be better than Alex's story anyway that's for sure no girly tantrums over stolen poetry."

"They're called novels, Rum," Alex felt inclined to point out.