Chapter 1, Scene 2
As he approached the door, Bobby could hear rough male voices inside. He set the duffel bag down, shifted the shoebox to his left arm, and knocked on the flimsy aluminum screen door. The entire frame rattled louder than he’d intended, making him jump.
A gruff voice barked back, “COME IN.”
He pulled the screen door open, grabbed his duffel bag, and glanced once more at Rick—who gave a reassuring wave from behind the wheel. Bobby nodded and stepped inside. The door clattered shut behind him, cutting him off from the morning light.
The smell hit him first.
The air was a thick mix of stale cigarette smoke, marijuana, and body odor.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was standing in one big, central space—the living room, kitchen, and dining area all combined, though there was no dining table. No walls or dividers—just one wide, dim room.
The furniture was sparse. A tattered, gray couch faced the wall where a flat-screen TV balanced on four milk crates clumsily duct-taped together.
None of the windows had curtains. Instead, sheets of newspaper were taped over them to keep out the harsh Las Vegas sunlight. It made the room feel sealed shut.
As Bobby took a step into the room, the olive-green carpet felt sticky underfoot—as if it had never been shampooed.
Most of the sweat smell emanated from one—or both—of the shirtless guys hunched on the couch, video game controllers in their hands.
“ON ME, ON ME! DUDE!”
“WHERE ARE YOU?!”
“FUCK!!”
The guy on the right hurled his controller against the wall, barely missing the TV and leaving a fresh gash beside a dozen others.
“You’re worthless, bro. You know that?” he said to the other guy as he stood, stretched, then turned and spotted Bobby.
“You the new guy?” He sized up Bobby without an ounce of curiosity.
“Uh…yeah. Bobby,” he said. He considered offering his hand for a proper greeting, but clutched the shoebox tighter instead.
The other guy stood, too, and together they came around the side of the couch toward him.
“Chad,” said the first guy, offering the name without a hand or even a nod. “This is Danny,” he added, jabbing a thumb toward his buddy. Danny nodded, but said nothing.
Chad was tall and wiry, with pale skin and rough tattoos. Late thirties or early forties—about Bobby’s age. His narrow eyes and thin face reminded Bobby of a serpent. He wore nothing but navy-blue athletic shorts. The sweat smell was definitely his.
Danny was shorter and heavier, with softer features and tattooed arms. Shirtless, he seemed perfectly unbothered by his belly and sagging chest. He also wore only athletic shorts. His were red.
“MOOSE!” Chad yelled toward the hallway, startling Bobby. “NEW GUY.”
Chad and Danny drifted back to the couch to resume their game. Chad grabbed a controller from the pile of others scattered beneath the dented wall.
Bobby heard a door open down the hall to the right, followed by the sluggish, lumbering gait of a bear waking from hibernation. A hulking figure appeared—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and thick through the middle. Late thirties, maybe forty, with a heavy build that suggested he’d once been athletic. His hair was matted on one side, and his eyes were glazed, half-asleep. He was barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of tight white briefs that dug into the heavy curve of his waist, struggling to contain a pronounced morning erection.
Bobby looked anywhere else.
“Justin,” the man said. “Everybody calls me Moose.”
He scratched his stomach as he looked Bobby up and down.
“What are you in for?”
“Uh…in?” Bobby asked, confused.
“Me and Chad was heroin, Danny was booze. What are you in for?”
“Oh. Yeah. Uh…booze, I guess,” Bobby said, catching on.
“Not a lotta rules here. Weed’s okay, no hard stuff, no alcohol. Our rooms are down the hall there, and yours is that way where the garage used to be. It’s hotter in the summer and colder in the winter, but it’s the rookie room. The washer and dryer are in there too, so you won’t have as much privacy as we do. But we try to remember to knock. We all been here a long time, but if anyone leaves, you graduate to one of the other rooms.”
Moose gave the whole rundown in a flat, practiced tone, already drifting toward the kitchen. He grabbed a large plastic mixing bowl, poured what looked like nearly a full box of Lucky Charms into it, then drowned it in milk. He fished a spoon out of the sink, examined it, and wiped it off on the side of his briefs. The erection was gone, and Bobby hated himself for noticing.
“You can head on in that way. Let me know if you need anything.” Moose disappeared down the hall. Bobby heard the bedroom door slam loudly—unsure if it was accidental or aggressive.
