Switch by Grant McKenzie

grey brick. Before he could catch himself, his knees buckled.
    The rough concrete scraped his cheek as he tried to regain his footing, but his legs had no strength and his feet slid out from under him. He hit the ground with a smack and lay sprawled across the sidewalk.
    An elderly couple with an umbrella built for two stepped on to the road to get by his inert form. The man scowled and the woman clucked her tongue in annoyance.
    Sam broke into a guttural sob, his chest expanding and contracting with deep, shuddering breaths. No one came to his aid, and after several minutes, he felt drained and empty.
    They’re alive!
    Sam wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and pushed off the ground to rest on his knees. Curious faces quickly looked away. Nobody stepped forward to offer a hand. Either fear or indifference held them at bay.
    When his thighs stopped shaking, Sam grasped the wall with both hands and climbed slowly to his feet. His legs continued to tremble and his bloody cheek stung, but he knew it was time to use that pain rather than collapse beneath it.
    He shoved off from the wall and started to walk. He didn’t have a plan, nor a destination, but he did have a reason to live.
    Zack watched Sam stagger from the Justice Center. His movement was unsteady and Zack wondered if he was drunk or mentally unhinged.
    He wouldn’t have blamed him for being either. His own desire to climb inside a bottle hadn’t diminished, and if he hadn’t emptied the last one, he would be nipping at it now.
    When Sam turned the corner, Zack swung the Mercedes into traffic to follow. He wondered if the two cops he had ditched at the restaurant were looking for him, or if they had decided to let him be. He couldn’t afford to be arrested, not with the fate of his family on the line, but neither could he abandon his car. It contained everything he had left.
    Zack picked up the cellphone, hit the preprogrammed speed dial and reported in.

18
    Sam boarded a city transit bus and asked the driver how he could get back to his house. The driver told him to either take a taxi or ride the bus to the depot and transfer to a different line.
    Sam dropped some coins into the box for his fare and sat on the bench by the door that was reserved for the elderly and handicapped.
    Today, he felt qualified as both.
    As the bus left central downtown and headed east, the houses began to lose their charm and the faces of the pedestrians became more clouded with defeat. A motel sign in pale blue neon blinked from a block ahead, and as Sam stared at it, he felt a deep weariness pulling at his mind.
    Sam pulled the bell cord above his seat, alerting the driver he wanted to get off.
    ‘This ain’t the depot, bud,’ the driver said.
    ‘It’ll do.’
    Sam hauled himself to his feet and swung around to face the door. When the bus hissed to astop, he stepped off, checked over his shoulder, and headed for the motel.
    The same silver Mercedes he had spotted outside the Justice Center was idling half a block away.
    The front-desk clerk at the Bluesman Motel was happy to have a daytime customer until Sam explained he had arrived without luggage or a vehicle.
    ‘I don’ want trouble,’ said the man in a heavy Pakistani accent. ‘No drugs, no guns, no whores, and absolutely no pornographic movies being filmed on the premises.’
    ‘I’m just tired.’ Sam handed over his credit card. ‘Give me a bed with clean sheets and hot water for the shower.’
    ‘We very clean,’ explained the clerk. ‘Very nice establishment. We not allow scum or pornographers.’
    ‘That’s a relief.’
    The clerk narrowed his eyes into slits as he slid Sam’s credit card through a small electronic card reader attached to his phone.
    ‘You have room four. Very nice. Clean. Fresh. I personally unplug toilet myself.’
    ‘Good to know.’ Sam’s mouth stretched open in a yawn. ‘There a back door in the room?’
    ‘No back door,’ said the clerk, his eyes narrowing again. ‘I