Murphy Bed

Angelo didn't say anything, just tagged along. He sat next to Murph on the downtown bus, then walked with him for the three additional blocks to Murph's building. He was just there. And it was enormously comforting.

There was an old freight elevator at the back of the lobby, but Murph had always hated its creaking and groaning. Pointing to a heavy metal door, he ventured, "Stairs?"

"Can you manage?" Angelo asked.

"Can you?"

The man cracked a smile. "Easy."

Murph started up. "Do you work out or something?" Why was he even asking?

"Yep. I did sports in school. Guess the habit stuck."

And then, for the second day in a row, Murph was ushering a coworker into his home.

The man peered around without comment. Until he realized where Murph slept. Then he grinned crookedly. "A murphy bed? Not bad."

"Seemed appropriate."

"Totally."

And then he had Murph take two aspirin, made him sit on his bed, stole his shoes, and tucked him in. He filled a glass and put it on the bedside table, watered Murph's fern, changed the angle of the blinds, and asked if he had any pets. And in a final show of wisdom, he entered his number into Murph's phone, plugged it in, borrowed a spare key, and promised to drop by after work with food.

"Why?"

"Your fridge's empty." And with another of those little shrugs, Angelo locked himself out. Or locked Murph in. Either way, he was alone again, but in a safe space. That was good. But sleep eluded him.

He threw off the covers. Too warm.

His head pounded, and his joints ached. Was this some kind of flu? He hoped he hadn't passed it along to Angelo.

Murph curled up, then grabbed back his blankets, needing their shelter even if he was sweating. This was too bloody awful for words, and a whimper escaped. Something was making his skin crawl, and though he wrenched and writhed, he couldn't escape. How much time had passed? Should he call for help? Could he?

Dragging his pillow into his arms, Murph smothered a groan, then swore. There was a swirling, burning, angry pulsation at the center of his back. Was this the precursor to a heart attack? Was he dying? It certainly felt like dying.

Hot pain made it hard to breathe as everything focused on that single point, which seemed to melt down his spine. That couldn't be normal. He may have hollered when the heat spiked, then spilled away. Limp with relief, Murph shuddered his way into unconsciousness.