Bobby - 3/15/2024, 10:06 a.m.

Bobby sat in the passenger seat of his sponsor’s pickup with an old taped-up shoebox balanced on his knees and his black duffel bag wedged between his feet, forcing his legs wide until his knees pressed uncomfortably against the console and the passenger door. He had no room to move. But getting out and facing the unknown felt even worse.

A sharp ray of sunlight caught the rearview mirror, stabbing straight into his eye. He lifted his hand to block it. He noticed the dusty digital clock on the dashboard tick over to 10:07 a.m. and stared for a beat before looking out the dirty window toward the house that would be his home for the foreseeable future.

The yard sat bare—so dry that even the weeds had given up. Just dirt and sun-bleached rocks stretching in every direction. Up and down the street, every yard looked the same without a single tree left standing. A bicycle leaned against the side of the house, and two more lay abandoned in the dirt.

The house was a mid-century stucco box like every other one on the block. Patchy and sun-faded siding, missing shingles on the roofline, and a screen door that hung crooked with a jagged tear—all showed years of neglect. The interior door behind it stood ajar, proving signs of life, but offering only a wedge of darkness from within.

Rick tossed his cigarette out the window, blew a lungful of smoke out the left side of his mouth, and cleared his throat—a soft warning that it was time to get moving.

“Look, kid…” he said. He called everybody Kid. Not even fifty yet, and he called everybody Kid. Bobby found it endearing, but he dreaded the empty platitude he knew was coming—hated it enough that he nearly preempted it before Rick could repeat it for the thousandth time.

“It is what it is,” Rick continued, warming up for the longer speech Bobby knew was next, the one that always came before Rick kicked him out of the truck.

Rick tilted the styrofoam cup and drained the last of his morning coffee, then hacked and choked on the sludge of grounds hiding at the bottom. He pushed open the door, leaned out, and spat what sounded like a massive loogie onto the pavement. Closing the door, he cleared his throat and started again.

Bobby caught the rancid stench of Rick’s breath as he turned to look at him directly.

“The guys in there? They ain’t your friends. Keep your head down. Keep to yourself. This place ain’t no official sober living. It ain’t sanctioned.”

Bobby studied the creased lines on Rick’s forehead, the heavy, discolored bags under his eyes, and the unkempt thickness of his patchy beard crawling down his neck before looking away.

“Look, kid…I ain’t got speeches for ya.”

He always had speeches.

“Life’s hard, alright? Getting sober’s hard. Dealin’ with women is hard—whether they ghost you or not. You got pain you’re dealing with, but at least yer dry now. And today’s a new day, right?”

Bobby didn’t respond. He watched a man three houses down—jeans, flannel, baseball cap—lock his front door and climb into his own dusty black pickup truck before driving off.

“Right?” Rick demanded.

“Right,” Bobby responded absently.

“Alright. Well…time to get gettin’ then. Just remember…”

Rick put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Look at me.”

Bobby forced himself to meet his eyes.

“You ain’t broken, kid. Yer just scared—like we’re all scared. But nobody gets sober by runnin’. Sooner or later you gotta stand still long enough to turn around and face whatever’s been chasin’ you.”

Rick let go of his shoulder and turned the key in the ignition.

“Now giddy up.”