Final Appeal by Joanne Fluke

there’s a shelf in the bedroom with the latest novels. Now, I’ve got to run. You take it easy, and I’ll talk to you again at nine tonight.”
    Stan hung up the phone and glanced around. No one seemed to be watching him. He thought about going to the men’s room, but that could wait until he got to the office. Denny’s facilities were undoubtedly adequate, but he preferred the luxurious surroundings of his own executive bathroom.
    After his conversation with Stan had ended, Michael assessed his reflection in the mirror. He hadn’t slept well without his medication, and the king-size bed had felt too large. Despite his lack of sleep, and his nerve-wracking escape from the hospital, he thought he looked better than he had in a long time. Freedom had visibly changed him. The slack, hangdog look of despair that had pulled down his features had disappeared. It was a brand new life, and he was ready to live it to the fullest. Stan had told him about the video, the man-on-thestreet interview that had never been aired. He still didn’t remember the details of the night, but now he understood his reaction at Oakdale when he’d pictured a man with a microphone shoved in his face. From what Stan had said, he was still a prisoner, in a sense, but his surroundings were palatial compared with his small hospital room at Oakdale. And as soon as Stan had positively identified him as the man on the tape, he’d truly be free.
    Was it time for his shower? Michael laughed out loud as he realized that there was no longer a regulated time for his shower. And he could stay under the spray as long as he liked. None of the old get wet, soap up, rinse off, step out routine for the man who was now known as Mike Kruger from Cleveland. He was free to act just like a regular person.
    Even though he knew that there was no one watching to see how long he took, Michael finished his shower in the allotted five minutes. Old habits die hard. He dried himself on a fluffy green towel, the first colored towel he’d seen in years, and put on the blue warm-up suit he’d found hanging in the closet. A pair of brand new Reeboks in his size were nestled in a shoebox on the shelf, and he found dozens of pairs of expensive athletic socks in the dresser drawer. It was a pity that no one could see him. Not only could he act like a regular person; now he looked just like a regular person.
    Michael figured he could get used to this kind of life. It would be a lazy day, no appointments with his caseworker, and no interviews with the reality therapist. His stomach growled, and Michael headed for the kitchen. He was hungry, ravenously hungry. He hadn’t eaten since his dinner at Oakdale, and when he’d arrived at the apartment last night, he’d been too exhausted to even think about food.
    His mouth began to water as he opened the door and saw the array of food his brother had provided. Sliced ham, roast beef, and turkey breast, all wrapped in see-through plastic. A whole wheel of Brie, his favorite cheese, plus cheddar, and Jarls-burg, and Monterey Jack. There was a jar of Gulden’s brown mustard, the kind he loved, and deli pickles. He’d make himself a triple-decker sandwich and go to the living room to eat it. Maybe he’d catch the morning news or whatever daytime soaps were popular now. Attention Ward B patients. Michael Hart can eat while he’s watching television!
    There was a huge loaf of crusty rye on the counter, and Michael put together a massive sandwich. Paper plates were in the cupboard, right where he’d expected them, and there was a built-in microwave over the stove. Michael cut his sandwich, covered it with a piece of paper towel from the wooden holder on the wall, and nuked it for forty-five seconds. Perfect. Now all he needed was a pickle and something to drink. Stan had laid in a supply of root beer, his favorite soda.
    Ten minutes later, there was nothing left but crumbs.