“Hey, Doc, how’s Holden doing this week?” D.B. always asked the same question, even knowing that the answer would never be ‘he’s gotten better’ as they went through the usual weekend check-out procedure.

The best D.B. could hope for was that tired old pun, ‘He’s Holden his own.’

D.B. found it odd that Holden wasn’t ready for him like every other Friday evening. D.B. hadn’t missed a weekend, ever. The doctor guided D.B. into his office while they waited for Holden to arrive. The door closed gently behind D.B.

“Maybe, he’s taken a turn for the worse.” The doc didn’t want to meet D.B.’s eyes. “We tried that experimental treatment, the one you signed off on, electrode-shock therapy. It was not successful, if anything, it made him angrier.”

‘Angrier’ caught D.B.’s attention.

Holden was always at odds with his life. Even here, he complained the place was ramshackle. But it was costing D.B. a pretty penny, and other than some dust from the Santa Anna winds drifting across the orchards, the place was spotless. 

Holden had been a little too privileged in his upbringing for D.B.’s liking. Maybe if he’d had to serve in the war, if he’d known what menace really was, he’d’ve appreciated what his parents had done for him, what D.B. had stepped up to do for him, once they gave up.

“We have to file a report with the Department of Corrections next week.” The doctor spoke furtively, eyes on the closed door. “This might be your last time with him. I can’t recommend him being allowed weekend releases anymore. You’ll need to be more careful with him this weekend. Especially around women. He tried to strangle one of the nurses, again.”

The door opened and Holden walked in, less steadily than the last time D.B. had seen him, more reminiscent of how he’d looked when he first arrived, drugged, on edge. D.B. became aware of the two rather muscular medical assistants standing just behind Holden.

The doctor’s tone changed to an obviously false joviality. “What do you have planned for the weekend?”

“I thought I’d take him to the pier in Santa Monica,” D.B. nodded out the window to his pride and joy, a sporty Jaguar convertible. “All this time in the foothills, I thought the sea air might be good for his spirit.”

Without ever breaking his smile, the doctor started flipping through a directory, mumbling, ‘Santa Monica…Santa Monica…Ah, here.” He grabbed a pencil, scribbled a number on a slip of paper and handed it to D.B. It was a phone number. “Just in case you need help.” They both stood up. “Quickly.”

“Have a good weekend, now,” The doctor allowed the assistants to manhandle Holden through the lobby and out the large wood and glass front doors. D.B. barely caught up as Holden reached for the driver’s door of the Jag.

“I drive this weekend, buddy” D.B. teased. “Maybe next weekend you can.”