In the Basement, In the Sky

Sixteen

You don't go out for New Year's. Your nerves are still too raw, your resolve too fragile: if you were to go out with Funshine and Smartypants and they were to offer, you'd take anything they'd hand you. So you stay in with Ronan and Angie and instead stay up late playing games with movies in the background.

Without your Adderall, all the days blur into a single, solid mass of grey. You try so hard to find work, but despite both Angie and Smartypants looking at your resume, you can't seem to get a call back.

You've started texting Kylie, even though your phones have been shut off and they won't send. Maybe that makes it easier. There is a list of them, now, unsent, never to see a reply.

I love you.

I miss you.

I haven't gotten high since my overdose. I'm sorry I saddled you with the bills. I didn't know what else to do. You can just throw it away.

I still can't find work. None of the coffee shops want me because I've had too many jobs.

I'm trying, Kylie. I'm trying so hard.

Angie is at the dining room table on her laptop, tip-tapping away at the keyboard as she handles her new work project. Ronan is at work. No class today, which means he gets the morning shift. He'll be home for dinner. You glance at the clock in the corner of your screen. Probably home soon, actually.

You rub at your eyes and can't help the heavy, sad sigh that heaves from your chest. The tip-tap of Angie's typing stops, and she says gently, "Jen?"

"I'm fine," you lie. But they're used to that by now. They know they can't force you to talk, even though before all this bullshit you'd spill anything to anyone who asked. But "I'm fine" means "I'm not having cravings and I don't want to hurt myself," and they know that, and that's enough some days. Some days, that's the best you can do.

You close the text message window and pull up one of your matching games. They're all Bejeweled knockoffs and you have a dozen of them, remasked to look like something new and different. The timer starts, but your brain can't move fast enough to keep up with the images. God dammit, when will you be able to get your Adderall again?

Just as the timer reaches zero, the lock on the door clicks once and Ronan enters. He closes the door behind him and shucks off his coat and boots, then shuffles through the mail, mumbling to himself. But then he jerks to a halt and pulls out an envelope.

"For one Atreyu Hoshigawa, from Medicaid!"

You nearly drop your phone you jerk up so fast. You don't remember applying for Medicaid, but you don't remember much of any of the minutiae of your life right now. You thrust your hands out and he hands it over.

"There's also a new doggie daycare nearby opening up soon. I took a picture of the info so you can send in your resume."

But you're only half listening, ripping the envelope open.

It's from County Care, that thing Angie helped you apply for all those weeks ago.

You scan over the letter as Angie and Ronan watch you while trying to seem like they aren't.

You've been approved.

You throw your hands up in the air. "They said yes!"

Angie jumps up from her seat and Ronan closes the distance between you, and they both pull you into a tight hug. A few seconds later they break away and Angie rushes back to the table to grab her phone and laptop. She shoves the phone into your hands and plops down on the couch beside you, pulling up a new search window. Before you can think of what to look for, she's typed in chicago psychiatrists county care and gone off on a search.