Charmed I'm Sure by Elliott James

Charmed I’m Sure
    Once Upon a Time, a man wasn’t wearing any clothes. It was one A.M ., which is generally a pretty good time to be naked, but not if you’re walking on the side of Route 44 outside Suckhole, Tennessee, or whatever the hell the name of the next town was. The man was middle-aged and white, the demographic most likely to be crazy or doing drugs, and he was moving in a halting way that suggested exhaustion and disorientation. I thought about just driving on, but not too seriously. I did mutter a few things that definitely weren’t prayers under my breath while I turned around though.
    When I pulled up on the wrong side of the road and stopped fifteen feet in front of him, the man raised his right hand to his eyes and stumbled to an uncertain halt. He looked filthy and emaciated in the glare of my headlights. His scraggly hair was the color of iron and hadn’t been washed or brushed in days. His beard looked like it had never been groomed, period, though it wasn’t up for a lifetime achievement award or anything, maybe a year in the growing. He didn’t make a pretty picture. Robinson Crusoe’s picture maybe, if Robinson Crusoe had had a Facebook profile. Still, it could have been worse. The only parts of him that were obviously bleeding were his feet.
    I pulled the lever that unlocked the trunk of my car and slowly opened the front door, keeping it between us as I got out. On the surface of things, I was being ridiculous. Even if the man had been in prime condition, I had about five inches and seventy pounds on him. But I’ve never put much faith in the surface of things.
    His eyes were taking longer to adjust than they should have, as if he hadn’t seen light in a long time. It was May in the Great Smoky Mountains and bugs had to be eating him alive, but he didn’t seem to notice.
    â€œDo you have any identification?” I asked.
    No, just kidding. What I really said, very slowly and clearly, was: “Is anyone chasing you?”
    â€œI…no?” His voice was painfully dry, but he managed to sound both indignant and frightened at the idea.
    â€œAre you hurt?” I asked.
    â€œI hurt all over.” He stated this like a child complaining of a sick stomach: unembarrassed by his nudity, small voiced and blinking, considering his answer gravely but without any drama.
    â€œWhat happened to you?”
    â€œDamned if I know,” he said petulantly.
    I nodded. “Would you like me to get you some water and clothes out of the trunk of my car?”
    â€œI’d like some water,” he rasped. After another few seconds he added, “And clothes.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “Hold on.” I had recently been forced to leave my home in Alaska and was traveling between random locations while I looked for a new place to settle down. Accordingly, my car trunk was crammed full of odds and ends. I found him some running shorts and a T-shirt and a towel and a first aid kit and a big plastic jug of water. By the time I brought them to him, I also had a fourteen-inch knife on my hip.
    There was no wind, and the air was as hot and heavy as a giant dog’s breath, so I had to get close to smell him. When I did, I was hit by a wave of odors: river mud and blood and body musk and sex funk and a faint scent of something else on top of that, something that was coming off him but not from him. The closest I can come to describing the aroma is honeysuckle and milk.
    â€œDrink it slowly,” I said, handing him the big plastic jug.
    He ignored me and sucked at the container greedily, his cheeks working like bellows. Within a few moments he was spewing water back up, coughing and holding his palm over his mouth in a vain attempt to keep it all in. After that he sipped more sparingly.
    I made him put on the shorts before I opened the first aid kit. He had a lot of scratches and rashes and bruises and scrapes and small puncture wounds where