It had been a full week and yet Mary and Jeremy had not fixed their problem. They’d not even spoke yet, at least not since the past few days, since Jeremy left the apartment. And nobody for that matter even knew exactly where Jeremy was. Not even Kevin knew. And no one, not even Mary, was yet made too worried by it–as anyone that actually knew Jeremy would know, no matter where Jeremy was, Jeremy was off being Jeremy, that Jeremy was doing just fine–and possibly doing better than he should be, as Melinda would say. And the truth of the matter was, exactly that–that Jeremy was doing just fine–that is, he was at least, in relative terms, doing just fine. A guy like Jeremy could always do worse. He’d been hopping through spots in his old neighborhood, on the south side of town, where he was raised and grew up. He spent the days there getting drunk with old friends–mostly just bowling, and playing cards. But he missed Marry, though, and was ready to go back, if she was ready to take him.

When he had gotten back to the North Side, though, as he stepped onto the pink pave-way at The Glory, he was reluctant to step any farther, because he had realized that he was still so drunk. He knew that he needed to sober up first if he was going to see Marry if even at all that night, so he turned instead and walked to the park. 

As he turned past the back corner of the building, stumbling his way into the alley, he heard a loud crash bang behind him. Drunk as he was and, irritated with his own predicaments already, he was prone to some paranoia, but when he had heard that crash, he reacted, not in curiosity, or in speculation, or presumption of anything that was reasonable or relevant, but in merely what was flat out a reaction of his own angers–as Jeremy twisted, in what had managed as a full 180–like he were on a spindle–with his fist raised high and swinging–he had tripped over his own feet, and were it not for that punch, he’d have head-butted the ground. His hand had got busted up somewhat badly, though he’d not feel too much of it–at least not yet he’d not. And in a weird sense, he was actually lucky–even that busted hand could have been much worse.

Despite his overreaction, the noise which had prompted it, did indeed happen, and Jeremy hadn’t forgotten–he was far more focused on finding the source of it than he was on aiding to his new injury. He was certain someone else was in there in that alley with him. And he sought to find them.