Tobacco sprayed the stainless steel sink like a bad special effect in a terrible horror movie.
Wally Cherkin had been thinking of giving it up anyway.
He reread the email from his mom.
Get here now, ASAP. You’ll never see me again if you don’t.
Had to be cancer. Had to be.
Wally took his index finger and cleaned the rest of the chew from his lower lip, pulled some peppermint schnapps from the freezer.
Cried.
Ugly, blubbering, loose pieces of chew he missed while digging flying from his mouth.
He was a rotten kid.
His mom bought him these thoughtful gifts and he either didn’t care or he wrecked them.
He read the email again.
Now and never jumped out at him like they were alive.
He remembered the bike on his thirteenth birthday. Waiting for him next to the breakfast table.
Perfect western omelet at his place setting.
Before the sun went down he had figured out how to dismantle the bike bell and grind cocaine with it in the loft of the garage.
Remembered him and Bess Winton and Mooch selling some ungodly mixture of coke, meth and inositol scraped inside the bike bell.
Five high schools in four years, brand new Nikes for each school. A fresh start, his mom always said.
Wally Cherkin was landing in Santiago, Chile when his eyes were still red from crying. His mom would think he was stoned.
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