Pillheads had it easier in those days of open-season Medicaid. Three months after proving they lived on the edge, they pulled a flimsy card from the mail indicating they could buy any medication for three bucks. Some pharmacies would bend the rules and let them get their 512’s for free.
Being on heroin wasn’t nearly as easy, and required networking skills. And a thick coat.
My phone buzzed at three o’clock, and I arrived in at the Eno River Park at seven-thirty. The sunrise was breaking, and I felt the afterglow of Christmas in my belly and my veins. I had come alone.
The pigeons were altogether dumb, cocking their heads at each throw of bread crumbs into the falling snow. I breathed out, in time with my pendulum arm-swings, and took a knee. I was close, but I had come so far for a hit.
Angelo was late, as usual. I spat at the ground and shook with desperation. I hadn’t planned on withdrawing to an audience of pigeons.
This image prompt brought to you by Ermilia.