Three Spaces Over

This short story references substance abuse and mental health. Also, a reference to self-harm.

It was hard. It had been hard for a long time.

He drove into the parking garage and kept going down. The lights flickered overhead. Concrete walls. Water stains. The smell of oil that never went away. He passed empty spaces. Down again. The ramp curved and dropped.

He parked near a pillar where the number had been removed: just a peeled sticker, half-stuck.

He shut off the engine and sat.

The ticking started right away. The kind that comes when heat gives up. He rested both hands on the wheel. Didn’t move them.

He looked straight ahead like the car was still in motion.

A while passed.

He reached into his coat pocket and took out the stone. He rolled it in his palm. It was cool and smooth. No cracks. The weight of it was more than it should’ve been.

He’d picked it up by the river. He didn’t plan to keep it. Just never put it down.

Sometimes it stayed on his desk. Other times in the car. Now it lived in his pocket.

He held it a moment longer, then slid it back in.

Some nights, he thought about turning the wheel into traffic. Just a little. Enough to tip the angle. He didn’t picture violence. Just a quick shift. A clean end.

But then he’d imagine the other driver. Some stranger. Not ready. Not fair.

He never did it.

He got out of the car. His footsteps echoed. The air was cold and wet. Concrete had that smell when it held the water too long.

A door slammed above him. The sound came down sharp, bounced off the walls, and kept going. Then nothing.

He checked his watch.

8:12.

His hand stayed there a second longer than it needed to.

At 8:13, a black sedan came around the corner and rolled to a stop three spaces over. No headlights. The tires made almost no sound.

The driver’s window dropped a few inches.

“You’re early,” the voice said.

“I’m on time.”

The man got out. Neat coat. Black gloves. Clean shoes. He didn’t hurry.

He looked around once, then came over.

“You look tired,” he said.

“Didn’t sleep.”

The man nodded. “You got it?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached into his coat. His fingers touched the stone again. Then the envelope. He gave it to the man.

The man took it and tucked it inside his coat.

He didn’t check it. He wasn’t going to check it. Not here.

“You remember the rules?” the man said.

“I go home,” he said. “I wait.”

“And when the call comes?”

“I answer.”

“And?”

“No changes.”

The man looked him over again.

“That’s good,” he said. “People who change the story tend to get lost in it.”

He turned like he was done, but stopped halfway.

“You told me you were clean,” he said. “Three months.”

He felt something in his chest twist.

“I was.”

The man glanced at the coat pocket. The fabric sagged where the stone pulled it down.

He didn’t smile, exactly. Just moved his mouth a little.

“It doesn’t go away,” he said. “It just figures out your schedule.”

Then he walked off and got back in the sedan. He drove away without headlights. Just disappeared into the turn.

The garage got quiet again.

He stood there.

Then he climbed back into his car and drove.

The roads were wet—lights from storefronts reflected in puddles. Everything moved slowly. Everything gleamed.

At a red light, a car in the oncoming lane drifted too far left before correcting. He flinched anyway.

His grip on the wheel stayed tight.

He turned on the radio. Someone was laughing on a talk show. He turned it off again.

He pulled into his driveway, shut off the car, and sat for a minute before going inside.

He didn’t turn the lights on. He stood in the dark kitchen. The hum of the refrigerator was louder than usual.

He sat at the table. The phone was on the wood, screen down.

He took the stone out and set it in front of him.

It didn’t look like anything. Something a kid would skip across a lake. He stared at it for a while.

Nothing happened.

Three months back, he got up early. Walked two miles. Stopped drinking. Ate differently. Made lists. Answered emails right away. Sorted things. Kept track.

People called it progress.

Then the first call came.

The phone rang at 9:13 that night.

He answered it before the second ring ended.

“Hello?”

A pause.

“You’re home,” the voice said.

“I am.”

“You met him.”

“Yes.”

“You handed it over.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Good,” the voice said. Smooth. Not warm. Not cold. “Then everything stays clean.”

He didn’t say anything.

“What now?” he asked.

“You’ll get another call. Tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll answer how we expect you to.”

“And if I don’t?”

The silence after that felt like someone flipping a coin.

“Then your past gets louder,” the voice said.

He pressed his hand against the stone. It was still cool.

“I’m doing this to get clear,” he said.

“It doesn’t clear,” the voice said. “It shifts. That’s all.”

Then the line went dead.

He stared at the phone until the screen dimmed.

He got up and washed his hands. Not because they were dirty. It was something to do.

He came back to the table. Sat down again.

The stone was right where he left it.

The next morning, the phone rang again—a different number.

He answered.

“Mr. Harris?” a woman asked. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“I guess.”

“I’m following up on a statement you gave some time ago.”

He didn’t say anything.

She continued. “I just need to clarify a few things.”

She asked about dates. Names. Who said what. Who called whom? What was sent? Where.

He answered. Slowly. Carefully.

His hand went to the stone. He held it under the table.

Then she paused.

“Mr. Harris,” she said, “I need to ask something more directly.”

He waited.

“Did anyone ask you to change your statement?”

He stared at the wall.

The silence pulled tight.

He could lie. He could shift. He could ask her to repeat it. There were still exits.

The stone pressed into his palm.

“Yes,” he said.

More silence.

“Who?”

He said the name.

He didn’t say it loud. Just enough to be heard.

The woman didn’t respond right away—just a sound of papers.

“Thank you,” she said. “Don’t call anyone. Don’t leave.”

The line went dead.

He sat there.

Nothing happened.

No sirens. No knock on the door.

His phone buzzed.

What did you do?

Another.

You just made this worse.

Another.

You don’t get to decide what it costs.

He stared at the screen.

He didn’t reply.

The phone rang again—blocked number.

He watched it until it stopped.

He stood up, took the stone, and walked to the window.

Outside, it looked normal. A car passed. A dog barked down the street.

The headlights slid across the living room wall and were gone.

The phone buzzed again. This time, no message.

He held the stone tighter.

Somewhere nearby, an engine revved hard, then faded.

He stood at the window.

The phone rang again.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t answer.

He stood there.

It rang.

Then it stopped.

The house was still.

He turned the stone in his hand once, slowly. Then he walked back to the kitchen table.

He set it down like it was part of something—a piece in a game he didn’t know how to play.

He sat down.

He waited.