

### Welcome to

# Misplacea

### A Novel

By:

### Ross Peacock

The characters, organizations and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or to real organizations, is coincidental is not intended by the author.

Copyright ©2020 by Ross Peacock \- All Rights Reserved

This book is published for your personal enjoyment only and may not be copied or excerpted without the permission of the author. If you would like to share this book with others, please consider purchasing an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

Print Edition ISBN: 9798642002247

Independently Published

May, 2020

Haliburton, Ontario, Canada

Acknowledgements

I am indebted, once again, to my thoughtful editor and friend Julie Kennedy, whose careful review of this manuscript chased out all my errors and helped to build a more interesting story.

My first readers, including family members, also helped to clear out both the unlikely scenarios and unbelievable outcomes that find their way into a first cut.

Thanks to all.

RP

### Chapter 1 - Time Off

Of the many trillions of aware entities on earth, only an infinitesimally small minority, the so-called civilized human beings, buys into the construct of time. Eight-year-old Trula Bausch was in the majority. She didn't get it. It's not that she didn't try, she just didn't connect with the idea of measuring her movement through space the same way that others did. Her problem, according to those others, was also her best feature, according to her.

Trula did understand that things moved along. She felt the movement of the earth and of everything on it in the ever-expanding universe. What some people called an hour she experienced as two thousand kilometres of rotation, plus two hundred thousand kilometres of orbit, plus two-hundred and fifty thousand kilometres of left-over big bang outward velocity. But, eight-year-olds don't do that kind of arithmetic. She just knew that things moved really fast, that she was never standing still and that there was lots of churned up space just behind the present for her to squeeze into, if she felt like it.

As a pre-digital child, she was sat-down in front of a clock face and told to learn the facts that small things called seconds somehow were marching by a location and, when sixty had gone by, the new marching thing was declared to be a minute and, when sixty of those things marched by, the new, possibly only meandering, thing that emerged was declared to be an hour. Trula kept looking for the little seconds like some kind of creature.

"Do seconds have legs then?" she asked, when told that time could tick away if you weren't careful how you used it.

"No, seconds aren't a physical thing; they're a measurement. Kind of like inches on a ruler," responded her pre-digital, pre-metric teacher.

Trula didn't get it. "But how do they march by then?"

The older teacher regretted ever mentioning a radio program called 'The March of Time', listened to when she was a child. She now had limited time to invest in one small child's failure to grasp a simple idea, so she shrugged, needing to move on.

She suggested, "Forget all that, just focus on the arithmetic part: sixty-seconds times sixty-minutes equals an hour."

Trula could go with that approach. Parts of time were like red things called apples in a brown thing called a basket. She was bright. Perhaps too bright, as at her young age, she'd already figured out that keeping time really was a made-up adult trick to make sure that everyone getting on the train arrived at the train station just before it did. That feat had nothing to do with a clock, as far as she was concerned. It had everything to do with how to put two moving objects: one a train and one a person, in the same place. As there was little room for trigonometry in grade three, she learned to respond with apples arithmetic whenever she saw the word time in a question. Experience soon taught her to stick to what was expected—it saved time.

She made it to grade eight, uncomfortably, never really trusting her instincts. But she had a fix for that. She regularly used her best feature to check for what was expected before it was asked for. Her parents' VHS player at home had both rewind and fast-forward buttons. So did Trula.

In class, Trula could wait for a kid to come up with the right answer, then she could step through a gap in space to rewind to a different reality. For her, it was easy to slide back into that space, already knowing the answer, ready to butt-in to that version of her class with manic hand-waving before anyone else had a chance. She might not know why the answer was right, but she almost always got it. Each time she jumped, it hurt a little more. The spaces were getting tighter as she got larger.

Her teachers were perplexed by her up-and-down abilities. She appeared to know her subjects; but the approach didn't work for heads-down tasks, where no-one was yelling out the right answer, resulting in a lot of x's and zeroes on her written tests and assignments.

As confusing as her academic performance was, only one teacher ever took Trula aside.

"You stand out in class Trula. That will do you well someday, but for now there's a problem."

Trula was ready to hear the teacher out, then jump back to make sure that she responded correctly.

She asked, "Uh, what's wrong?"

The teacher wasn't volunteering an answer, so this would be more difficult.

"Trula, do you know what cheating is?"

She was ready to jump, but not yet.

"Uh, yes. Guess I do. It's like when you don't follow the rules."

The teacher nodded, but didn't add anything.

Trula felt her face flush. She was stuck for now. "I...I don't cheat."

The teacher now offered an opinion. "I think that you do."

Trula guessed that she was caught-out. Her childish game must be perfectly obvious to adults. They waited this long to discipline her because she didn't matter much to them. But now she would be sent home for cheating. She started crying.

Through her tears, she could see the teacher patiently waiting. This would be a tough situation to figure out.

Finally, the teacher spoke. "Trula, what you cheat at is you. You're not performing up to your potential. You're taking the easy road."

The statements stumped her. She had no idea what her potential was but, yeah, maybe she did prefer the easy road.

She sniffed, "My potential? What's that?"

The teacher smiled and patted her hand.

Trula now guessed that maybe she wasn't caught, yet anyway.

"You could do so much more. You obviously know your subjects; you do so well in class. But, then, when it comes time to show that on your tests, you don't put the effort in. It's cheating yourself—of your potential."

"Oh. It is?"

The teacher nodded. She added, "Unless you put in the work on your tests and assignments, I'm afraid that you aren't going to succeed. You want to succeed, don't you?"

Trula was stumped again. No-one had ever asked her what she wanted.

She guessed that yes was the right answer. "Uh, yes, I guess."

The teacher smiled. The counselling session was over.

Trula left the meeting with a new word: potential. By focusing on rote-learning of the strange constructs taught as simplifications of the real world, she eventually learned how to survive the tests of memorization that the system was setting out for her. She guessed that she must now be working up to her potential as no-one mentioned it again. She disappeared back into the concealing foliage of the middle.

Fortunately for her limited enjoyment of learning, there were unstructured subjects like social studies and art that allowed her to respond as creatively as she pleased and still pass the course without many painful redo's. She decided to avoid the rules-driven study of science entirely, as her understanding of the realities ran up hard against the expectations of academe. Her avoidance was unfortunate, as she might have eventually penned new thought on the movement of stars in the sky, seen from the inside. Over many orbits of the earth, her teenage awareness fell from the paths of the stars down to the dust patterns on her entirely boring homeroom desk. It was tedious but much less painful.

Trula's ongoing problem, once she finally got clear of school and got somewhat settled into the adult world as a call centre representative, was the constant demand for improvement. Work was no more comfortable than school. She cheated a lot. She was regularly forced to use her painful abilities to correct her shortcomings, as her various bosses put them to her.

Her shift-leader advised, "You should have kept that customer on the line long-enough to pitch the higher-value package. You let him go too soon."

She stepped out and, on the do-over, uncomfortably refused to let the poor sod get away.

Her supervisor noted, "You should have completed that no-sale call in forty-five seconds. You took more than a minute. This inefficiency is really impacting your productivity score."

She briefly imagined the difference between forty-five and sixty little bugs marching by. Fortunately, she was able to bring her focus back to the coaching session quickly. OK then, she would only have to correct one thing. She stepped out, rewound back to the call and talked twice as fast, then hung up without getting the customer's agreement that his problem was solved. Her productivity score nudged up a tick.

Inevitably, she was soon sitting across from her manager for a periodic review of her work. The manager listed her current shortcomings, concluding, "You're flighty Trula. I get the impression that you're not focused on our important work. You drift off. Not sure what else is on your mind all the time. Yes, you just barely meet the required performance measures, but you over-react to coaching by over-correcting. You certainly aren't working up to your potential.

Trula heard that word again. It seemed to follow her around.

The manager continued, "We can't coach every little thing. This job requires situational flexibility, which you don't seem to have, naturally, at least. I suspect that you would be happier somewhere else. What do you think?"

Trula had to agree; she was certain that she would be happier in an alternate reality where the work review was over, but she was tired; stepping out so often took a lot out of her. She packed up her small collection of snow globes for the third time in a year and cleared out.

On the transit ride home, Trula made a cellphone appointment with her first doctor. She would be going off benefits, again, and wanted to load up on her meds for as much of the future as she could. She hurt a lot. Her neck and back stiffened up on her. Her little corrections now left her nearly frozen in pain. Lately, she found that she was exceeding her daily prescribed dose of Percocet; she hoped that the doc might double-up or maybe triple-up the dosage or move her up to something else. She'd also hit the walk-in clinic for a quick renewal on her Prozac. Couldn't hurt to have lots of helpers on hand.

Chapter 2 - Fall from Grace

"There's nothing really wrong with your neck and back." The latest doctor was consulting the same medical conclusions that several earlier assessments had found. New procedures, new diagnostics, repeated physiotherapy visits and many pictures, both x-ray and MRI, all showed nothing physically wrong.

He was right; on a given day, with no stressful precursors, she might sit up in bed pain-free. Walking on a clear morning with no particular destination was pretty much the same experience as it had always been for her. Put an uncomfortable job-setting or a tense meeting in her near future and the pain increased with every step. She just froze-up, until she was staggering to get home or to almost crawl into the office. Unfortunately, each day seemed to present another unpleasant event.

Trula had pretty much given up on a physical solution.

She responded, 'I know Doc; it's muscle tension plain and simple. I freeze-up and pain follows. I'm my own worst enemy—but there's nothing I can do.

He was struggling to offer her any relief. "We've tried relaxants; you've tried exercise and yoga. Acupuncture. Hypnotism too, right?"

She nodded, offering, "The whole shooting-match. Nothing works for long and nothing changes. Except for when I kill the pain with a strong-enough medication. That's what I really need—stronger meds."

The conversation would now get tense, as it had with each prior doctor.

She continued, "Percocet is OK some of the time. Too many and I demolish my liver. I don't need that complication. What I really need is Oxy."

He was reluctant to prescribe the full-strength version of the opioid.

He said, "Don't recommend that path. It's too addictive. Not something that you can take as-needed. Once you start, you're heading down a long, difficult road to get back off."

She shrugged, "Who says that I'll want back off?"

He gave up looking at file notes on his computer terminal and finally made eye-contact with her. "But you tell me that you're pain free, sometimes. That possibility says your symptoms can be managed. You won't be opioid-free any of the time."

She continued, "Please, doctor, I'm close to using street drugs now. Others tell me that heroin will solve my problem. That's the path that I don't want to go down. But the pain has ruined my life anyway; so not much else to lose here."

He shook his head, "Oxy is for injury recovery, after surgery, that sort of thing. You use it to while you heal. You stick to dose until the source of the pain goes away, then you stop. There's always withdrawal, but that can be managed if the usage is controlled. That's how it works."

She knew this objection and had a rebuttal ready. "So, because my pain isn't temporary, I can't get the best solution?"

He didn't have time for a long discussion. His waiting room was overflowing.

"Not can't—shouldn't. It's dangerous and it will distract you from finding a way to get at the cause of the pain. Which is what we should still be doing."

She smiled, "OK, let's call it temporary then. We'll keep working on the fix. Until then, I'll get enough relief that I can keep working. Otherwise, I'm stuck in bed most days. If I can't get to work, I'm really screwed."

It was a practised logical argument. Staying employed was actually a different challenge for her, but no-one said that she had to tell the truth. Preventing a patient from working by not prescribing an available and supposedly safe drug was too much liability, even to well-informed doctors. That she wanted to work made her sound rational, as opposed to desperate, which most problem users were.

In the end she got her first light-duty Oxy prescription. Initially, this doctor increased the dose a couple times, after he gave up arguing with her. Finally, he refused more.

The next doctor picked her up without much resistance and was more willing to increase the dosage and frequency. A long-ago chronic injury excuse seemed to work on him, for a while. By shopping around and getting pointers from other users, she found a third even more-compliant doctor to increase it again. At that point she just started ignoring the prescribed usage and burned up her prescriptions too quickly. She had a list of excuses for that, from needing to travel for a month, to losing her luggage, to having her house supposedly burn down. Some of these worked for a while, too.

Walk-in clinics were next. She couldn't get away with lying for long, as the health card system told the practitioners all they needed to know. It had built-in safeguards against prescription doubling. She got meds for a while, then OHIP said she was cut-off from engaging any more doctors.

Her first reaction to being turned away without any opioids was to say, "Fuck it, I'll just quit then. I can manage this."

Her neck and back pain had changed from being driven by reality jumps and muscle tension to being driven by any reduction of Oxy in her system. She could coast a day maybe, then she'd succumb to an entire body ache that was worse than her original complaint. When she got meds back and maybe took more than she should, she was pain-free and blissfully happy. She didn't see what the problem was until she couldn't do that anymore.

She was about two days into a determined "cold-turkey" quitting attempt, when the pain and violent nausea pushed her off her committed path. She still had some savings at that point. She knew people who knew people. One of them led her staggering up the little pathway to the illicit backdoor clinic that would become her life-line while she could afford it.

When she told her first doctor that she needed stronger meds to keep working, Trula had actually given up on keeping any job for any length of time. The last call centre gig was distant memory, a half-orbit of the earth ago. After packing her bag and returning her headset, Trula left the sprawling operation on the second floor of a failing shopping centre with no regrets and certainly no look back. She got what the job required, understood the company's business and knew that she was expected to push service upgrades on every caller, even on the ones who complained about the last upgrade they had been tricked into.

She understood from the before-shift pep talks that: "Every problem is a selling opportunity." She was quite prepared to have half her income dependent on her "add-on" sales results. She even understood that enthusiasm was infectious and very necessary to pump up the team, so that they could all excel. The problem was that she didn't give a shit about doing any of the things she understood were expected.

Nothing frustrates a hands-on, new-age boss more than an employee who understands every requirement but who just does whatever she feels like when she's working. As she had in school, Trula used her second chance jumping skills to do the tasks just well-enough to stick around, until the boss finally had enough of the game and suggested that she leave.

Given her inability to follow directions, Trula considered that her next job should be more free-form. It should be something where she could come up with her own solutions apart from others and, most certainly, apart from a boss. That set-up would certainly let her work to her potential. Of course, given her chronic pain problems, the job would have to be able to be done while mostly out of it on strong pain killers.

She considered driving a delivery truck. Certainly free, she; wouldn't have a boss watching her every move. But the stoned part would be a problem. Landscape labour sounded good on all points, except the directions part. Most landscape jobs were very specific and she was likely to apply a better solution when she saw it. Hers would be better, but would likely be a problem when the owner showed up.

She ran through all of the creative options: painter—too structured; baker—too many recipes; fast food counter—too fast. In the end, the option that suited both her head and her physical needs was a customer consultant in a pot shop. She walked into the Queen West store and immediately saw an environment that fitted her to a tee. Both staff and customers were already a little buzzed, there were no preformulated product packages and creativity was highly-valued all around. She jumped in and was having a great time within a week.

Her back pain seemed to be easing a little and while she was still an Oxy user, the medication wasn't interfering with her work. The owner was sympathetic to her need for the occasional dark day when she just couldn't push the pain down. He promised her that they would find a better solution for the pain with a high-CBD sativa cannabis oil he would make up for her.

A month in, Trula was thinking that she might well have found the best job in the world. She loved listening to customers and making suggestions. Her boss, who wasn't really a boss, had her making good progress on her pain with the sativa oil. The mild THC high that came with it was pleasant and let her sleep much better. She was able to reduce her Oxy usage back to a reasonable level. Life was looking much better. Trula forgot all about her once-necessary jumps to a replacement reality.

The day of the police bust, Trula was supposed to work the late shift and hadn't arrived at the store yet. As she rounded the corner of their block on her way in, she saw the police cruisers and what appeared to be a city garbage truck. She stopped a couple of doorways back and watched as all of the cannabis products were roughly bagged and stuffed in the trunks of the cruisers. Everything else, including glassware, accessories, clothing, growing systems and literature was going into the back of the garbage truck. One push of the button that controlled the crusher and it would all be just a pile of pulverized junk. She guessed that was the plan: not only to disrupt their barely-illegal pot sales to mostly medical users, but to put the place so completely out of business that they couldn't just restock and reopen. It was such a shame.

Trula was lucky this time. She had avoided getting rounded-up and charged with trafficking, simply by not being there. Her work friends weren't as lucky, although from experience, the charges would probably be suspended on behaviour promises. They'd say, "Stay out of the business for a year and you walk with no record."

The system is designed to beat small fry into compliance, not to put them on the Province's room and board plan in jail. The boss might not be so fortunate. But they all knew it was a risk, so there were no tears or regrets.

Except that Trula was out of work again. She thought about trying to chase down a similar job in another dispensary, but figured that she had played it too close for comfort the first time. Time in jail without any medications would just about kill her. She couldn't raise bail. Even if she wasn't really at risk of prosecution, her punishment would start the moment they separated her from her drugs.

A series of ever-diminishing jobs followed. She clerked in a vintage clothing store until the owner groped her; she walked dogs until a pet owner complained about her precious pup coming back mud-covered. She subbed in for an Uber driver, against the company rules, until a panic attack in downtown traffic caused her to put the car in park in a middle-lane on Lakeshore and just TTC-it home. She finally tried delivering handbills at ten cents per in her neighbourhood, until she did the math and realized that she'd have to be travelling at track and field record holder speed in order to make fifteen dollars an hour.

Finally, she just gave up working. Her pain and her Oxy use were moving back off the charts and she was pretty much employed full time in securing her meds. She spent her days travelling between doctors, between clinics, between pharmacies and finally between the various illegal sources needed to secure her precious tablets.

She struggled back to the flat she shared with the stranger who had answered her ad looking to share rent costs. A complete stranger worked out best. There was no expectation other than keeping her food on one refrigerator shelf separate from her co-tenants on another. They agreed that the toilet paper would be shared on an as-needed basis, with the option for review if individual usage became a problem.

Her still-excellent math skills once again showed her that there was an inevitable point in the near future where she would be out of money and unable to pay her share of the rent. One thing that being an addict had taught her was that something months away was of absolutely no importance when considered next to the necessary requirement of getting her meds secured the next morning. She shrugged. It would all work out somehow.

### Chapter 3 - Altered State

Street drugs are dangerous. Trula knew it, but when all other sources of medications are closed off, the street is the only choice. She was fortunate for a while in hooking-up with a guy who knew other guys who would resell prescription drugs. They bought from supposed patients who could get a prescription written then keep on going back and asking for more.

A pain-free person who can swing an Oxy prescription, on a perfectly reasonable two or three pill a day regimen for that back pain that "just won't go away", can sell the pills to wholesalers for three times the pharmacy price. Those pills turned into nice clean twenty-dollar-a-pop pills for sale through the illicit network. Almost anybody walking out of a hospital with script they plan not to use is a potential supplier, once they hear the pitch that can make them hundreds of dollars a month by just continuing to fill the prescription.

Trula's sellers were cool, clean and very concerned that their little "back-door" pharmacy actually supply good drugs at only about five times the legitimate pharmacy rate. A prescription wasn't required. They made sure that pills were uncontaminated and that the pill-strength was accurate. A really-dependent user might take three or four a day, but they definitely woke up the next day, if groaning from their hundred-dollar habit.

The little business relationship worked well until Trula ran out of savings. This happened about six months after her last chance legal clinic finally cut her off for actually using up her legit prescriptions at twice the prescribed rate. A helpful MD who didn't know her from Eve suggested considering an alternative to "wind down her habit". She wasn't interested in winding down anything. She didn't spend her money on much else, so why not enjoy the pleasant numbing effect of the medication for as long as she could?

At some point, she knew that her apartment, her food and even her clothing would be unaffordable. She was already into family members, a credit union, her roommate and even a couple naïve pass-through boyfriends for "loans". As she never paid any of them back, in addition to being broke, she soon wouldn't have any friends or supporters left either. She didn't care as long as she could keep up her meds for another day. The future was a shrug.

She scraped together her last ninety dollars and instead of going back to the good guys one last time for three or four pills, she headed for a dark street corner where she heard she could make a more economical connection. An hour later she had a little ten-pill blister pack labelled 40 mg OxyContin that certainly looked just like the pills she always took, but cost about half of what she normally paid. She wished that she had done this earlier to stretch out her money.

All through her slide out of work and into full-blown addiction, Trula had avoided stepping through the fabric of reality as she could see no purpose in redoing anything. She had no-one to impress and wasn't confused about what was expected. She rarely contemplated the moving universe or any of the spectacular phenomena in it. Most days she had barely enough energy to stay aware in her own small space, let alone to wander into others.

The packaged pills looked and felt just like the last pills in the premium pack bought through her back-door network. They were the same, as far as she could remember, to the ones that made up her last legal prescription. She would be cautious though and only take two to start. She dreaded the money conversation that she would need to have with her roommate when she got home from work. In an hour, with a little hit, she might feel up to it.

In an effort to show some contribution to the house, she did a quick clean-up and packed up her old food boxes and unrecognizable left-overs from the fridge to hump out back prior to hitting the meds. The late evening was clear and warm with stars actually working their way through the city haze. Their dilapidated patio out back was actually kind of nice. She sat down and pulled out her pill pack. The wind was blowing a little so she needed to hang onto the card. She pushed out two random pills and dry-swallowed them.

Trula woke up with the afternoon sun shining in her eyes. She was slumped against a wall in the flat, holding the spring cord handset of the ugly green wall-mounted telephone that they kept saying they needed to get rid of. It was giving off a nasty howl, which served as her wake-up alarm. Her position on the floor against the wall suggested that she hadn't been able to stand and slid down to her present seated and sprawled position. Why did she have the phone in her hand? Had she been trying to call 9-1-1 in an emergency? She could remember everything up to dropping a couple of her new pills, then it was a blank.

The afternoon sun was also confusing. She remembered that it had been nearly dark in the late fall evening when she was sitting outside. This sun was now high enough that it had to only be late afternoon. Had she passed out and slept a whole day? Why wouldn't her roommate have woken her up? Where was her roommate? She was sure that they hadn't had their difficult talk as she was still apparently at home in her own place.

She got to her feet and staggered around the apartment while she got her bearings. She filled a glass of water from the tap. She was parched enough to believe that a whole day had slipped by. A couple pieces of cold pizza on a plate attracted her attention. It was only after she was chewing the stiff crust of one that she remembered that she had already eaten the same piece a few minutes before. It didn't taste any better the second time around.

Months back, her roommate took over the cable payment entirely, so the TV still worked. She clicked it on and turned to the all-day news, weather and sports channel. She needed to know what day it was in order to start calculating what damage she might have done while out of it. Could a great distance have passed? This had never happened before, but stepping out of this reality while stoned was a constant worry for her. God only knew what damage she might do arriving fully stoned in an alternate reality.

The TV said it was today. The little digits said that it was actually about four "time" hours earlier than the last time she connected with the place she was in. She knew four ago as more than a million and a half kilometers backwards in actual space.

She caught herself in the thought. "No, that's stupid. Now is now. I go out, I come back. I don't time-travel. Something else is fucked-up here." She wasn't convinced and she was a lot scared.

As she was settling her breathing and heart rate down, her mind snapped back to her hard-won pills. All other thoughts evaporated. She had burned two, but had eight left. One more now would help to calm things down. Lately, she could really only think straight about other things when she had satisfied her absolute priority of medication. Her background pain level registered a tick up as if trying to get her full attention.

She turned and ran through the back door out to the patio. The table and surrounding area were empty. The debris on everything looked undisturbed. Had she even been here? She must have put the pills away without realizing it.

She tore back into the flat and found her backpack, tossed, as normal, a metre inside the entrance door. She tore at the pockets. She once had the blister pack stored in her side pocket next to the leather wallet she still used to hold money, even though its little pockets, once flush with credit and debit cards, were now empty. The wallet was there but the pills weren't. Misplacing pills was a mistake that she never made, no matter how dopey she was. She dumped everything out of all of the pockets and then turned out all of the pockets on her stained and saggy windbreaker. Nothing.

Trula charged around the apartment looking on every surface, and in every container or cupboard. She could feel her pain and heart rate increasing as a panic reaction started. She rarely panicked anymore, but now she was out of both meds and money. Maybe she could bum some cash when her roommate got in, but that was a long distance from here and she already owed her enough that she would probably refuse. Particularly when it would be obvious that she needed the cash to score. Her only positive thought was that she could probably get something for the ten left in her wallet that she planned to use for two days of food. She grabbed the wallet and her jacket and headed out the door.

Thirty minutes later she was back at the corner of Carlson and Jarmin streets. The same dealer was visible through the same Tim's window as before. This go-round she didn't need anybody to call him out. She went in and charged over to the table. Street pills were twenty dollars a pop, but she hoped that as a return customer, she might bargain a couple for ten.

The dealer looked up with a startled expression when she blurted out her need.

She said, "Hi, I'm back. Can I get something again?"

He looked around, but not at her. He spoke to the table. "Who the fuck are you? What are you talking about?"

Trula guessed his memory was a little fuzzy. She whispered, aware that maybe talking out-loud was the problem.

"You fixed me up earlier. Lost it. Need a refill."

He replied in an even lower voice, still not looking at her, "Don't know who ya are, but if I could help ya, wouldn't be in here. Get the fuck outside. Talk to the guy over there by the phone. Maybe, he kin help ya."

Trula guessed that they still used the same protocol, even for repeat customers.

She whispered back, "Oh. OK. Sorry. Goin out. No problem, y'know. Just need some."

She looked around to check if anyone was paying attention. None of the mostly heads-down grey people was at all interested in yet another table spat. She turned and headed back out. As before, she moved to the front corner of the parking lot next to a battered payphone booth and waited.

After a few moments, a scrawny kid in a grey hoodie wandered over to her, just as before. He looked up ever so briefly. When she made eye-contact, he grunted, "What d'ya need?"

Trula grinned in spite of the shady nature of the contact. "Yeah, same as before. Oxy. Lost it, need somethin pretty quick-like."

The kid didn't respond to the familiarity. He stepped into the phone booth and got his phone out of the hoodie pocket. After about ten seconds of conversation with someone, he came out and walked past her towards the back of the neighbouring parking lot. Trula knew the drill; she followed.

The dealer had come out another door of the donut shop and was loitering just off the same property behind a concrete garage that blocked the view of anything but the nearby low-rise apartment building. He looked up at her and shook his head.

He was angry. "Never fucking approach me inside! Don't know who the fuck ya think ya are, but all inquiries go through Jimmy here, outside only."

He looked around one last time, then asked, "So, what do ya need?"

Trula now had to deal with the problem of having too little cash.

She responded, "I just have enough for a couple Oxy. Lost the pack you sold me earlier. Trying to get some more money, but hopin you'll give me a break on a couple pills while I do that. I'll be back tomorrow, for sure with more cash, make it up then y'know."

The dealer looked at her like she had asked him for a free ride entirely. "We dint sell ya nothing earlier; mus be thinkin of somebody else. Anyway, don't do credit or discounts. Price is twenty a pill. Y'need to go make some money now if ya need meds. Nothin I kin do fer ya."

He started to walk away.

Trula could feel the panic building again. She pleaded, "No, wait. I've got ten bucks. You sold me ten pills for eighty before. Can't we make that twelve for ninety?

The dealer stopped, turned and looked her up and down. "Doll, ya have me confused with somebody else. Dint sell ya nuthin. Oxy 40 is twenty a pop. Got some 80's, but they're thirty. You want a better price I need t'see a lot of money."

Trula was desperate. "Ah, come-on. Can't you sell me one for ten this time? I'll get more money, soon. Just need somethin to get me over, y'know?"

The dealer was considering her appeal. Desperate junkies without any money disgusted him. Ten was nuthin. He had real shit he could sell one at time for ten but he might have a better idea.

She wasn't bad-looking and was nice and clean compared to most of the bitches around there. Maybe he'd discount a crack hit to set this one up as a repeat customer for something that she would certainly work hard for. He could have Jimmy take her up t'the apartment for that. Some guys, if they came around on his call, might like the prospect of a woman with some meat on her enough to keep paying regular price for her hits for a few days. Who knew, then maybe she'd be ready t'work for him? Make those guys real happy. He was open to takin in money however it came.

He grunted, "Let's see the money."

Trula dug her wallet out of her jacket pocket. When she opened it, she was surprised to see her original ninety in tens and twenties still there. She had paid this same dealer eighty dollars for ten pills already. Now the money was back in her wallet. She rapidly considered possibilities in her painful, but suddenly clear head.

The combination of the confusing sunshine, the time digits on the TV and the magical return of her money suddenly added up. She had fallen back in time on the same day. She had denied the possibility, but it had to be. She suspected that she had actually stepped out of reality briefly and somehow stepped back in many thousands of kilometers earlier. Was it the same reality? Skipping backwards in space was a new concept to grapple with.

The possibilities for analysis filled her head, but she shook them off to get back to the deal. She said, "Shit, look I've got more money than I thought. Thought it was lost, er, stolen. This is good. Gimme ten 40's instead."

The dealer had mixed feelings. He was seeing his potential return on turning this broad into a crack whore fade away, but he was getting back to the deal he was expecting originally.

He said, "Hundred for six."

Trula stared him down for a moment, then said. "Ten for eighty or nothing. Suddenly my problem doesn't seem so bad. Maybe I'll shop a bit."

He stared back. Time was ticking away for him too. He needed to move his current lot in order to re-up his stock from his supplier tonight.

He growled and responded, "OK, eighty. Just don't come back complaining. This is quality stuff right out of the pharmacy. Eighty is a steal."

Trula recalled the same assurance before.

She replied, "Yeah, yeah. Just give it to me."

The dealer nodded towards the grey hoodie standing a ways off. "I don't sell drugs—that would be breaking the law. But maybe Jimmy over there kin help ya."

He turned and walked quickly back out to the street.

Jimmy motioned for her to follow and, as before, pulled out a grimy bag stashed about sixty feet down the alley. Trula pressed the folded bills into his hand, took the offered blister pack and kept walking.

Having the pills in hand had the same effect that it always did. Her panicky rush settled down and she could calmly walk back to her downtown flat. Relaxed breathing moved her pain meter back down. She didn't really need the tabs that bad. The neighbourhood turned slightly less sketchy as she crossed streets and worked her way back to her west-side home. She knew that it was home-for-now, with now being pretty much today, unless she found a source of funds. But concern for that problem faded away as she walked. She could look up without wincing; she wasn't hard-up at all right now.

She imagined that every addict got a little rush once their next hit was in-hand. She considered that she could probably stretch these pills to four or five days if she limited herself. Maybe six or seven, if she really conserved. She might get some money by then. Who knew? Maybe today was one of those days that some others talked about when something so fucked-up happened that it scared them right off the dope, for a while. It would always only be for a while. Maybe she could just freeze these pills in an ice block like they do with credit cards and only open the freezer once in a while to look at them. Sure, might work. She could feel her "kick" confidence building.

Trula knew that she had to try to understand her backward-pitching blackout before she popped again. She never blacked out on Oxy. In fact, her normal reaction was just the opposite: calm alertness as the pain subsided. She loved doing everything while a little high. The only time that she had ever blacked out was long before she was dependent on the pills, when she might drain half a bottle of vodka on her own little version of a bender. Thinking about it now, she guessed that she had probably just fallen asleep back then. So, a blackout was brand new. The only thing that was different was the street drugs.

She guessed that, in addition to falling backwards, she had definitely crossed over into an alternate reality. That was no big deal except that she might have gotten a little smarter in the other one about how strong these pills were, if she woke up. If the pills weren't really factory-issue Oxy, then they might pose a significant risk. People died when they got fentanyl-laced drugs. The dealer said that they were from a pharmacy, but that's what he's going to say if he's asking full price for drugs. A true back-alley addict, who could only scrape together a couple bucks for powdery meds wrapped in cigarette package foil might reasonably expect that they came from some basement lab. Down-and-outs rolled the dice. That's why they were told to only do their hit in a place where they had a reasonable chance of getting their heart restarted by EMS or by a friend with a Narcan kit. But these were labelled pills in a blister pack. That kind of stuff should be trustworthy.

As she arrived back home, she realized that the stove clock showed about the same digits now as it showed when she took her pills on the first go. The numbers didn't mean much to her, except that when they added another lot of sixty, her roommate would likely walk in the door. If she was going to keep the edge off with another pill or two, she should take it now.

She expected that they would talk about two-months rent contribution owing and the four-hundred dollars that she had borrowed from her besides that. Leena was kind and unassuming. She hated Trula's drug habit, but hadn't made it an issue as long as she had the money to carry her end of the rent and utilities. The flat had once been Trula's place after-all. She owed lots in other places, but this two-thousand or so was likely to put her on the street soon.

As her bank account balance declined, she had made the rent her second priority, covering it for quite a while. But now her account was down to pennies and would soon succumb to bank fees. She had no cash, so couldn't offer any solution.

While she was still straight and wanting her hit just a little, she stopped to think through whether there was anything she was missing. She'd given up any kind of work as she either showed-up stoned or missed expectations within weeks and always got fired, even with her little corrections. Now she had no useful employment record, so wasn't even a candidate for real paying work, except for the most menial kind that casual agencies parceled out on a day basis. Busting her ass grunting boxes or cleaning shit for minimum rate had actually paid for a couple weeks survival on occasion, but it was so low-return for the damage it did to her body and head that she couldn't face trudging off to find it. Even when she did work, the meagre pay always went to her first priority. The rent deficit wasn't helped much.

Being clear-headed, she had one last thought that she had hauled out and put back away more than once before. She had a little whole-life insurance policy her parents had started for her that only paid about five-grand on death, but was paid-up and had some cash value. Her mother was the beneficiary. She left it alone as no matter how bad off, she didn't want her parents to have to pay to bury her, so figured the five-grand would get a quickie haul-away and burn kind of disposal, leaving whoever had the task a couple bucks to spend in her name on a some cause or a week-end in Wasaga Beach.

She found that she was mumbling to herself; something she never did when high. But right now, her clear head seemed to want to hear herself out.

She argued, "Fuck the funeral. I need some help right now. Maybe this is the bottom. If I cash out, just for now, I'll find a way to replace it. And I'm not dying yet."

Her condescending internal voice, that she definitely didn't hear when needy, argued that she was fooling herself. "You're an addict; you'll swallow, snort, or inject every last cent before you actually see bottom. If you cash out the policy, you'll blow it on shitty pills. Somebody will need to bury you."

She countered, "No. Right now, I need a roof over my head. If I hand the cheque over to Leena, we kind of get square and she can be my bitchy-bank for a while. I'll tell her not to give me any back unless I'm actually dying. Doesn't solve my next meal or next hit problem, so it is bottom; it's just a bottom with a bed."

Having declared that she won the argument with herself, she headed into her bedroom to toss her junk accumulation boxes for the last statement she received from Sun Life. It took a while to find the envelope, unopened of course, among all the other mail that she just ignored. She recognized the bright logo and ripped it open. She was right, there was money there. It wasn't five-grand, but she could cash out right now for twenty-seven hundred. She could show this to Leena and maybe together they could go collect the cheque on Monday. She could sign it over. They would be square for a month anyway.

With that settled, she came back to the kitchen to consider the blister pack. It looked original for sure, even down to the tiny printing on the punch-out foil backing. Then she noticed something that she hadn't seen earlier. There was one mark on the foil that was out of place. It was just a tiny random ink splash, but wasn't something you'd expect on factory packaging where the little packs whipped through machines at a thousand per minute. On closer examination, she could now see that the alignment was off and that the adhesive was uneven. The backing was a home-printed foil decal stuck on a generic blister pack. It was probably designed to be hand-applied and trimmed to look real to a junkie in the half-light of whatever hovel they camped in while swallowing their whole pills or snorting their crushed ones. The pack would be crumbled and pitched soon-enough. No-one, except maybe the cops, was going to do a quality-control inspection.

Trula now eyed the pill pack with considerably more suspicion. Who knew if the contents were actually Oxy? More likely some kind of crushed vitamin pill of the right colour laced with fentanyl and pressed back into shape on some basement pill-press. For sure, they would try to get just the right mixture to give users the expected buzz without killing them, but additives like fentanyl were notoriously hard to mix in. How do you ensure only one tiny crystal per pill? Some will have none and the killer pills will have a bunch. She was feeling a lot less comfortable with her situation and nervous again about just popping one.

Could she pitch them and hang on until Monday, when she could beg a little grocery money from Leena to hit-up the back-door guys? Probably not. Most likely, she would end up eating at least one of these babies tonight. She laughed; this was a six-shooter with one bullet in a chamber. Get lucky, pull the trigger on an empty cylinder and maybe you get the expected high. Get unlucky, you get the speed-ball load and die. It was pretty good odds actually. They got worse as you went though. She must have hit the jackpot the first time around, but she had lived. She was afraid to die, but maybe she wouldn't. Maybe her "special" abilities kicked in to save her. Maybe she'd just black out again and do another fallback?

Her nagging inner voice was screaming to be heard again, but she wouldn't entertain it. She decided that she would wait until bedtime to drop a pill. She'd be lying down and if she popped back in four hours earlier, she'd still have her pills and no damage would be done. It was an illogical plan, but as she saw it, her only one at this point.

Leena came in a little late, as usual on a Friday after work. Others might have been out for after work drinks. Leena had probably still been at her desk. She wasn't really pleased to see Trula coming back into the kitchen. She finished stashing a take-out container deep in the fridge, but she gave Trula a friendly-enough greeting.

She said, "Oh, hi Trula. You're home. How are you doing?"

It was code. She was really asking: are you high, just mellow enough or strung out? The three Trula's were never home at the same time and Leena needed to know which one she was dealing with.

Trula smiled and responded, "Good enough, y'know. Just hangin in right now."

Leena smiled as well. This was in-between Trula. That was good.

Trula was a little excited about her plan to cash out her policy. She wanted to commit to giving Leena the money before she could do a weak-willed revision back to keeping half or more and maybe just giving Leena enough to keep from getting tossed out. She knew that she needed to say her first commitment out loud to give it any chance of success.

She smiled again and said, "Leena, I need to talk to you about money. You've been great giving me some credit and a loan. I know that sometimes I don't do much to deserve any breaks, but I really appreciate it."

Leena put her hand up in a "stop" motion. She responded, "Trula, I'm sorry. It really doesn't matter how nice you ask; I can't afford to give you any more money. I wish I could, but rent is coming up again and I'm really going to have trouble paying it myself this month. I just don't have any extra."

Trula cast her eyes down and said, "I know. It's not fair to you. And, I'm not asking. You've been really great carrying me." She paused, then added, "What I was going to say, was that I want to pay you back on Monday. I have a little cash I can get at. It's an insurance policy actually. It has a cash value and I can give you back the two thousand or so I owe you. You tell me how much it actually is. There's some extra. I'm going to use it to clean up, maybe get some help."

Trula added the last part as an afterthought. She had no intention of cleaning up but she found that her various lenders were sympathetic to the possibility. She couldn't recall if she had used the line on Leena before, but it came out as it sounded good to her.

Leena blinked a couple times, then added a half-smile. She had heard lots of promises over the last few months. This proposal sounded desperate. Was Trula really down to cashing out her last asset on earth? She was so different from the woman she met and liked a year and a half earlier. That Trula seemed put-together and in control. She had even had been a friend to Leena when she was new to the city and needed one. These were their last days together. Trula might be putting herself out on the street soon enough, but for now, she could give her one more chance.

She replied, "Trula, that sounds good. I appreciate being paid back. I hope that you can get over this. Help is certainly a good idea. Let's do that on Monday then."

The women smiled at each other and moved apart. Neither really believed the other at this stage. One-way or another this would soon be over. Leena had already given the landlord notice. She was reluctantly leaving. She'd wait to see if she got paid back, then tell Trula the bad news. Soon, she'd be on her own.

Leena left again to do some grocery shopping. She made a point of asking Trula if there was anything she could get for her. She now kept very little food in the apartment as it tended to disappear mysteriously. That was sort of OK. She fed the birds and squirrels too.

Once Leena was gone, Trula let out a deep breath and crashed on her bed. She was suddenly exhausted and was starting to ache badly in the absence of any meds. Maybe if she could sleep, she could wait on a pill.

Leena came back much later; she had obviously done more than just shop. She filled the fridge with milk and fresh vegetables and the cupboards with some packaged stuff. Nothing expensive and mostly stuff that took some work to prepare. These goods tended to stick around longer.

She was in a melancholy mood, having stopped to meet with her soon-to-be new roommate at her nice-enough apartment in a condo building uptown. The ramshackle main floor flat in the rundown older house that she and Trula shared had never been her preference but, early-on, the economy of cost-sharing fitted her means. Getting Trula as a friend had been a bonus. She had a better job now but still needed to get back to only paying half the rent. The new place had a pool and an exercise room; these distractions might fill some of her time too.

Trula had managed to sleep for a while and was now up and feeling achy and stretched out with no meds in her system. She slouched out of her room and poured some of the new milk into a glass without acknowledging that Leena had just brought it home. This was strung-out Trula making her presence known. Only the anticipation of dropping a pill soon kept her pleasant-enough to share the living room couch to watch the late news.

Neither woman said much. Each had a secret on her mind. They were separately making plans for the rest of their life. In Trula's case, she was aware that life could be about an hour long. Soon, she would be playing street drugs roulette.

The TV news went through disasters abroad to disasters across the country to local disasters, which mostly involved people being shot, before switching to weather and random sports highlights. The anchors brought the program back to them prior to sign-off with the announcement of tonight's lottery draw numbers, unofficial of course.

Trula was completely zoned out, when Leena laughed and said, "Hey look at that."

Trula tried to focus on the TV. "What?"

Leena responded, "The winning Lotto7 number. The last four of the seven numbers are 42 – 43 – 44 \- 45. Bet no quick pick came up with that combo. Guess nobody won much tonight."

Trula stared at the screen. She didn't get why one set of random numbers would be more interesting than any other, but went along with Leena's comments.

She wearily added, "No, for sure, but quick picking is for suckers anyway. They rig that to ensure a limited payout over time. The only way to beat them is to pick your own numbers."

She had no idea why she thought that way, other than to associate the sentiment with her well-deserved hate of any computer-run process. The rapid-fire call presentation and automated prompts of the computer-controlled call centre systems were relentless in driving down any originality or in even allowing agents time to scratch their ass. Go on after-call work status for more than a few seconds and your screen screamed at you. She had been tempted to step out and put a snow globe through one lots of times.

Leena liked the late-night talk shows for as long as she could stay awake. She was on her second glass of wine since she had come in. She kept it in her designated cupboard and poured a glass at a time, without offering any to Trula. She wasn't buying alcohol for both of them and wasn't sure how Trula would handle booze anyway.

Trula was done. She begged off and headed to her room, closing the door behind her.

Once in her room, Trula pulled out the blister pack and considered her choice. She was tempted to play eenie-meenie-minie-moe, but then just punched out the same first one in the bottom corner. She considered life in general once more, then stretched out on her bed and swallowed the pill. She closed her eyes and waited. Of course, nothing happened. She waited for a count of three hundred with no effect at all. The pill was a dud. Her only thought was, "So much for stretching these out."

She punched out the second pill in the row and this time chewed it, keeping the paste in her mouth a long time for a quicker punch. She finally rinsed and swallowed with water and laid back. The odds of at least getting a little hit were now in her favour. She closed her eyes and waited. Nothing again.

"Shit." She cursed her luck. This time around she was getting duds. She picked one more pill randomly from the middle of the pack and chewed it. She figured that she'd just keep eating them until she got some sort of buzz. She was exhausted and laid down to wait this pill out.

After zoning out for a few seconds, she sat up again. She swung her legs out and put her feet back on the floor. She stood quickly with absolutely no buzz or unsteady legs.

She was pissed. "Goddamn-it! I should go back and kill that guy. Sold me absolute junk. At least I should get something with a punch. This is ridiculous."

She didn't feel tired or in as much pain anymore, so suspected that someone hoped to fool a buyer by mixing up Tylenol and over-the-counter pep pills, figuring the mild analgesic and the caffeine might fool an addict. Idiots.

She could hear that Leena was still up and about in the kitchen. She considered that she hadn't really eaten all day and maybe could sneak a bite of something that Leena had already put together. She headed out to the living room.

Standing, after reaching far back in the fridge, Leena looked over and said, "Oh, hi Trula. You're home. How are you doing?"

Trula blinked and searched what she was seeing for relevance. Leena had her coat on. Her work backpack was sitting against the kitchen counter, where she never left it. It sometimes had some money in it. After a couple bad experiences, the pack went deep into her room right away.

After too long a pause, Trula answered honestly. "I'm OK, I guess. Little tired, this late, but don't feel too bad."

She smiled. Trula guessed that was what she wanted to hear.

Leena was done in the kitchen and grabbed her pack on the way past on route to her room. Trula was left trying to figure out where she was and when she was. Sure enough, once she brought them into focus, the clock digits represented an earlier position. She had fallen back again with no real buzz to show for it.

She knew that talking about any of this would freak Leena out, so she quietly moved back to her room to check the one thing that would confirm her guess. Sure enough, the blister pack was back in her pack and was fully intact with no pills missing, lousy ink-job and all. It must be early evening. She apparently got no hit from these fucking pills, but the contaminant, which was probably fentanyl, was tossing her backwards. A lot of good that did her.

She really didn't know what to do now. The pills scared her, but she couldn't just throw them away. Maybe she could resell them somewhere, but if they really were spiked with fentanyl, she might be killing someone else. She needed pills that did something for her pain, but after spending all but ten dollars on this shit, she had no money left.

She knew that she had to go back out to the living room and have the "money" discussion with Leena again. That plan was to keep a roof over her head while she figured something else out. It hadn't been too hard and she had done it the last time straight-headed. Thinking about getting that out of the way, she considered that she actually felt OK. Maybe the fentanyl did her some good after all, but how could it? In this reality, the drugs were still in the pills in the sealed-up package. Sometimes the fucking contradictions of quantum space hurt her head more than the addiction hurt her body.

The conversation went pretty much as it had the first time. Trula could tell that Leena had something on her mind. She guessed that if she hadn't raised the subject first and offered to clear up her debt, she might have gotten the boot out of there. She couldn't actually argue with that and after the insurance money ran out, it was inevitable. A few days back, she had scribbled a list of possible places to live, starting with crawling back to her parents or maybe begging a couch from her brother, then maybe checking out a shelter, right down to searching out a cardboard box on the street. She had stroked out the first two options. The price of either would be cold-turkey sobriety on a tight leash. Not something she was ready for just yet.

Leena left as she had before. This time, Trula didn't feel the need to sleep. She must have had the same rough day and made the same scary journey out to connect with the street dealer and Jimmy, but she couldn't feel any fatigue in her body. The pain was there in the background, but she suspected that a couple Tylenols would probably see her through. She decided to leave the illicit pills in her backpack and maybe see whether she could steal a nibble out of Leena's meal stash in the fridge.

She was pleased to find nearly a full meal's worth of still lukewarm pad thai. She stole a couple bites and stirred the rest to spread it out so the deficit wasn't obvious. She considered just eating it all and giving Leena the ten bucks. The take-out dish had probably cost more than that in the financial district where Leena worked. But then, she wasn't even that hungry now. Two bites had filled her up.

Trula went back to her room and got out her yellow note pad to start making some diagrams. Maybe she could figure out how this was happening so she could avoid it next time. She actually forgot about her pills for a while. Sitting comfortably for the first time in a long time, she let herself remember that she had once enjoyed imagining her awareness stretched out to the stars. Drifting painlessly and mindlessly in space seemed like a dream state that she could enjoy. Fuck earthly troubles, she could sail above them if she tried hard enough. Lately, she couldn't get off the ground.

Leena came back in again after a couple hours and, as before, unloaded some groceries in the fridge. She was surprised to see Trula curled up on the couch, surrounded by torn-off yellow foolscap pages covered in diagrams and lots of stroked-out ideas.

Leena recalled that Trula had once been a math whiz, able to do any calculation in her head on the spot. Her interest in anything other than sleeping and medicating had pushed that all away in the past months. The scene of her busily heads-down with fine marker was a throwback to times-gone-by for sure.

Leena asked, "What'cha doin? Looks intense."

Trula looked up, clearly focused elsewhere. It took a few seconds for her to connect that Leena was even there. But Leena could see that she was clear-eyed. The question was whether she was strung-out? Sometimes manic behaviour appeared independent of her medicated state. This might be what was going on. She could be deep in some paranoid funk, writing letters to the Premier demanding free drugs for all or something equally nuts. Trula said a few times that she had a problem with reality. Leena guessed that meant in dealing with it. She hoped that this wouldn't be too weird.

Trula finally smiled. She started collecting and organizing her pages to free up some couch space. She finally replied to the question on apparent ten second delay.

"Oh, not much. Just doing mental gymnastics to loosen-up some tired brain cells." She laughed at herself and continued, "Guess not gymnastics actually, as that would require my brain to be in shape. Maybe more like a brisk walk out in the universe."

Leena nodded, impressed that Trula appeared to still be both straight and lucid. Most often, by early evening she was out of it and either heading to bed or rummaging in the kitchen trying to make food that she didn't have. Tonight, she seemed a lot like her old self. Too bad that it wouldn't last.

Leena asked, "Mind if I turn on the TV?"

Trula was deep into some new thought, but eventually grunted, "Sure. Pretty much done here anyway."

They watched the tail-end of a who-dun-it drama and then the news came on.

Trula wasn't paying much attention at first, but then slowly realized that she was hearing exactly the same news reports for the second time. The weather was the same, but maybe that was to be expected. Then the sports repeated, with the same scores. Then the Lotto7 numbers came up.

Leena laughed and said "Hey, look at that."

Trula didn't need to say "What?" She was paying close attention.

The number came up. She didn't remember the whole thing but last four pairs of the sequence were 42 – 43 – 44 - 45. All seven numbers drawn were probably exactly the same.

Leena made more or less the same comment as before about how quick pick wouldn't have been much use tonight. Trula tried to remember what she had said before, but what came out was a non-committal grunt. She was stunned.

If her mind was sometimes fuzzy, it was clear as a mountain stream at that moment. She couldn't believe what had just happened or had almost happened. If she had been paying closer attention before, when she came back to the same reality, she would have already known the winning number for more than ten-million dollars, four hours before ticket sales stopped.

### Chapter 4 – Randomness

Modern lotteries depend on randomness or at least on the appearance of randomness. Put rubber balls in a machine that bounces them around and together for a few moments, open a small selector window and wait for their random movement and interaction to guide one little ball into the window and down a pipe for the first number in the sequence. Repeat seven or eight times. What could be more random than that?

Other systems use a drum to tumble chips or tickets over and over until one is drawn by the celebrity picker. Obviously random, eh? How about a snapshot of the last seven numbers past the decimal in the decay rate of a subatomic particle? Given the inability to control for dozens of variables, it's a fairly random number. Computers can do random draws with no human help at all. How about flipping a coin? This one is trickier, but if the flipper has no bias and tosses the fair coin high enough to spin a couple dozen times, then the result can serve as random, for most purposes.

The fact is that there is no such thing as a truly random number. Perhaps a powerful computer churning for many minutes can come up with a pretty good facsimile, but even then, randomness is only a degree, never an absolute. Given the same inputs to the same algorithms running for precisely the same time, you would get the same very non-random number.

Mid-morning on Saturday, Trula found these answers in a few moments on Wikipedia and on some other egg-head discussion sites. Most agreed that "absolutely random" is a poor modifier and preferred to use "random-enough" instead. Could any human creep up beside the rubber ball drum and measure enough controls to predict how certain factors in the movement, bounce rate, dump-in sequence, temperature, humidity and air pressure would impact the movement of the balls in combination. No? Then the outcome is random-enough that no-one can predict it. Good enough for a bored official, a stony accounting guy and a pretty recorder chickee at 10:35 p.m., each Friday night.

The corollary of this theory is the important variant. You don't have to know what each of the variables is to predict the non-randomness of an event. You only need to know, that in the absence of any new factor, it will repeat precisely. Theoretically, if none of the input variables is changed in any way, an apparently random event will repeat as well.

Repeatability meant that Trula needed control for the "butterfly" effect if she hoped to pull off what seemed like a simple plan. She found lots of on-line discussion on this problem. If she could truly move back in time in the same reality, then there is a period of time before the supposedly random, but repeatable event when a variable could change. In sci-fi literature, the dilemma is portrayed as the single butterfly crushed by a clumsy time-traveler to an ancient realm; its absence tumbled through millions of missed generations eventually links events to create humanoids with pea-sized brains instead of giant frontal lobes. Pea-brained humans can't send time-travelers anywhere, so a conundrum is created.

If, by mistake, she dropped back into the same reality many days before the draw, then almost certainly her unexpected presence could change an event that is happening again only a few kilometres away. Less impactful than being pea-brained, but just as destructive to her plan. To prevent any effect, she could try to hide in the apartment and never go out. But Leena would certainly change her routine in some manner because Trula was holed up in her bedroom with boxes of Saltines and a case of Coke. She would get away later or earlier and get to the streetcar earlier or later. Getting on the streetcar, she would bump another commuter who would stop what he was doing for a moment to glare at her. The distraction would mean he didn't finish his magazine article, so he would keep the magazine out in his hand rather than tucking it away in his designer satchel when he exited. The exposed Journal of Unlikely Relationships would bump the door rail and fall to the ground, causing him to stop to pick it up. That delay would put him at the back of the pack streaming into his glass and cement building and he would miss riding up in the elevator with a buddy, who then wouldn't spontaneously invite him out for Thursday drinks.

Missing the get together meant that he missed the opportunity to talk to a cute new employee whose cousin worked at the Lottery Corporation. The employee would go home early, quite bored, and have time to call her cousin to suggest that he come over on the week-end. The cousin would love the idea and would ask the squirrely guy in charge of lighting for the televised draw Friday to cover for him in the afternoon so he could get away early. That would work out, but the occasionally-unfocused stand-in would be held up for ten minutes getting back to the evening job and someone else would have to punch the set lights up for him.

Being inexperienced, the second stand-in would have the levels slightly off, which would need to be corrected when the capable lighting guy finally got there. The impatient director would give the go-ahead to secure the stage two minutes later than normal, which, by the time that the actual machine and balls were brought out, would be reduced through compelled hustle, to only an eight second variation. When the "Lets-get-it-together-here," director finally gave the camera go-ahead, the chickee would dump in the balls only four seconds later than she should have. The lucky number sequence would be completely different.

Trula thought that she could negate most of the theoretical variance from the displacement she would create by falling back just four hours again. The odds of any impact were infinitesimally small. The key question was whether any of the uncontrollable events, movement of air or even unexpected noise around her had the potential to reach the lottery studio and affect the draw timing and sequence. It apparently didn't the last time she fell back. But she had just stayed in. This time she would have to go out and buy a lottery ticket.

It was just one of the questions that she was trying to keep straight through her pain as she researched related subjects on causation at a public computer terminal at the Toronto Reference Library. The list was pretty long, the result of scribbling that covered the torn-off pages of foolscap piled on her bed late into the early morning.

The night before, she sat with her mouth open and in apparent shock when the Lotto7 numbers came up. Leena asked her if she was alright. After long moments, she said that she was. Fortunately, she kept her reaction mostly inside. She became a good liar over the last few months. The ability to hide her excitement came in handy as she packed up her papers and headed into her room, saying she was tired and going to crash. She did anything but.

Now she had both an opportunity and a problem in front of her. The opportunity was obvious. Just get through the week somehow, wait until after the draw numbers are made public on Friday night, memorize what she sees, drop the same three pills, fall back, wake up, go down the street to Heung's Royal Variety and buy the winning ticket from old Well himself. She would make him a little richer too, which was good as he was one of the few constant supporters in her life

She could come back and make sure that Leena is sitting there as the numbers come up. They could scream and dance together. She'd give her a million. She could choose to feed her habit in style via the finest of private clinics or maybe even get straight at some pampered get-away treatment ranch for the fabulously wealthy. All things would be possible.

Clearly, it was the opportunity of her lifetime. With no big winner last night, as Leena had predicted, the jackpot might be more than twelve-million next Friday. She kept repeating "Holy shit!" under her breath until the terminal user next to her told her to "Shut the fuck up." While he watched YouTube videos on how to make pipe bombs or something.

The morning's research brought her back to the most basic of problems. She needed some pills to get through the week-end. Even if she now had an excellent reason to get straight and stay that way in spite of the pain, she couldn't stop taking her meds. Fentanyl was bad enough when ingested by a working addict, whose body is used to synthetic opiates. If she went cold for the week and then dropped the same three pills, the nasty add-in might just kill her. She had to cut it extremely close. Just enough Oxy to stay lubricated and then repeat exactly the same dry period prior to dropping the pills Friday night.

At that point, she was in real discomfort and had to go home. She needed to do something about the pain. She hoped that Leena was there and in a good mood. Just a hundred bucks to take over to the back-door pharmacy would get her some light duty meds that she could maybe stretch to mid-week. She still had the ten-pill blister pack in her backpack but was both afraid of touching it and of losing it somehow. She might be able to get more from the dealer, but maybe the next batch would be actual Oxy and be of no use. No, she had to lock-up this pack until Friday. The only proven performers were the three little illicit pills on this card.

She wished that she could just spill the whole story to Leena. The week would certainly be much easier with an accomplice. But she knew that most of what she experienced was crazy-talk to other people. High school taught her that when she tried to explain to her very best friend that she could repeat things. It had come off as a joke and produced a laugh. The friend told her to quit smoking pot. Trula had persisted. It was a disaster. Her friend used an excuse to take off. Later Trula saw her whispering to another classmate, while they both tittered and looked at her with slightly bent heads. Like all of her earlier childhood friends, this one moved off and avoided contact from then on. She learned not to talk about what she could do to any peers or to any of the various counselors her parents sent her to.

The plan for the week had to be hers alone. She could try to make it to Sunday on Tylenol One alone. These she could get in quantity by appearing to just be a still-together migraine sufferer at any pharmacy counter. She learned to rotate through the retailers as the pharmacists had pretty good memory. Getting a hundred a week for cash at the same place was definitely out. She couldn't eat that many anyway without severe liver damage, but she might get twice her money back by trading them in at the back-door pharmacy. There apparently was a black market for them in the states. She recalled now that she had an unopened bottle of a hundred in her bureau drawer. That, plus her ten bucks might get her one legit Oxy 40. Ten dollars more would make that or maybe even a 60, a sure thing. This would be a ten-dollars at a time week-end.

She hadn't tried panhandling too much before as she didn't look bad enough to get much sympathy. She had some acquaintances at the back-door who were good enough at it to fund their regular purchases. These guys had a knack for hanging slightly-dirty, maybe mismatched clothes over a held-crooked body that clearly said: "This guy, or girl, has no other options, so is deserving of at least a looney." You couldn't look too rough or give off any hint of booze, as the passers-by would judge that any money given was only going towards a cheap bottle, so wasn't deserved, even if the beggar was a very sick alcoholic.

The trick was to have a goal to talk about. Some hustlers added a scrawled sign indicating that food was needed. Others had a story of needing a ticket to get home for a sick relative. Some of the most successful just offered a big smile, a good-day greeting, a wink and an air of independence that the office-dwellers might recognize as a deeply buried longing in their own life. These guys always showed a nice pile of change, that they were trying to top up for a burger or something familiar. In any effective case, the prospective donor had to feel that their little bit of change would make a difference for this person that day.

And be thankful, the pros said. "Makes life easier for all of us if the mark walks away thinking how nice that encounter was."

The bitch was that nobody carried change anymore.

"No change, sorry." It was the worst response, as it suggested that you would have got some if they had any. Most lied and just found the excuse more comfortable than brushing past stony-faced. Could you panhandle with a smartphone and Square reader to call them on the excuse? Probably not.

Trula had played the violin as a kid and still had her last one in a case in the closet. She considered hocking it, but also thought that maybe on a nice day, she could practice a little and then go out to play for quarters on a corner somewhere. Doing that wasn't easy, as there was a fairly aggressive turf war that could get you injured if you took somebody's good spot. Plus, business owners, the city, the cops and even random rummies would hassle a player who just set-up wherever he wanted.

The transit system was definitely off-limits as 'authorized' players needed to audition and qualify to play in designated spots only. She was no concert violinist. If she played, it would be more East Coast fiddle than Broadway stage. It was an unlikely possibility. Maybe she'd just hock it for fifty bucks which might get three pills. Next Saturday, she could buy it back or buy a fucking Stradivarius if she felt like it.

Leena was home when she got there. She was usually in motion on her way out and almost always said so as soon as Trula came in the door or came out of her room. Today was no exception. She was finishing her stashed noodle dish. Possibly she felt some embarrassment as there was no evidence of Trula having any food at the flat or of eating any somewhere else. Leena quickly packed up the box and stuffed it in the garbage.

Trula really needed just twenty more bucks. Could she ask one last time and get away with it? It was worth a try. She thought again about the insurance policy cash-out. Maybe Leena hadn't really believed her? Maybe if she got out the statement and handed it over as some sort of proof-of-intent, she could bum another twenty. That much would should get her some legit pills and maybe a hamburger somewhere. She rushed into her room to get the Sun Life statement before Leena disappeared.

She came back and said, "Uh Leena, wanted to show you this. Thought, y'know, maybe you thought I was jus blowin smoke last night. Says we really can go get twenty-seven hundred next week." She held it out.

Leena stopped what she was doing and came over to take the statement.

She glanced at it and replied, "Yeah, sure, I didn't doubt you; just feeling bad that you're sort of cashing out everything y'know. But I'm OK if that's what you want to do. Must be a Sun Life office downtown; you can come over on Monday."

Trula liked the direction this was going. "Yeah, hope that they can cut a cheque right away; but even if it takes a couple days, we'll be square next week for sure."

Leena nodded, but didn't say anything. Maybe she could see where this was going as well.

Trula figured that she may as well just get to it.

"So, uh, wondering if I could bum another twenty jus fer t'day. Sorry, know that you said no more, but I figured it will all even out next week, right? Think you could spot me until then? Last one, I promise."

Leena shrugged and sighed. "Cynth, I don't know. I think that I'm just helping to feed your habit, y'know? Don't want to be an enabler. They say that that's the worst thing a friend can do."

Trula was nodding back. Were they friends? She could have been, once, maybe. Mostly the friendship was now about keeping Leena around for whatever she could get.

She smiled and offered, "Thanks, you're right. But, that's just it. I haven't taken anything since yesterday afternoon. Some Tylenol sure, but nothing stronger. I'm trying to wind it down, but I'm too scared to go right off, y'know? It's painful and I'm scared that I'll relapse. I actually have some meds in my pack that I'm not taking. I can show you. They're for a real emergency. But today, I just need some over-the-counter sleepers and some food. I promise that you'll be helping me, for sure."

The lie slid out so smoothly that Trula almost believed it herself. It was half-true. She planned on living on one pill today and on one pill tomorrow. It would hurt, but she'd live. She had a goal other than just getting stoned now. She had something to work towards and just needed to keep the pain down a little so she could focus on getting there.

Leena wanted to get away. She decided that twenty was her exit fee. It often had been.

She said, "OK Trula. You don't need to tell me a story; you just need to do it, y'know? If you can get off and get back to work, this wouldn't be necessary at all. Hope that you can."

In her heart and mind, Leena knew it would end soon anyway. Even with the insurance statement saying Trula had some money, she wouldn't believe that she was getting any of it until it was in her hand. She dug a twenty out of her wallet and handed it to Trula.

Fortunately, the back-door pharmacy was open 24-7. Not that it posted hours or anything. Sometimes it took a few extra knocks, particularly in the middle of the night, but one of Ragge or Aarav would eventually pull the curtain back an inch to see who was there. If you were a regular or with a regular, they quickly ushered you inside to the little sunroom that served as their retail storefront. Presumably, they would deny anything but their supposed practice in eastern herbals to a complete stranger, who would probably be told to come back during business hours, which would likely be any time except right then. Fortunately, Trula received the required introduction from a street buddy named Chazam or something like that, the first time she came around. It was too bad the boys didn't have a loyalty program, as they certainly had lots of repeat customers.

The waiting room even had a couple chairs for sitting around, but not for ingesting, snorting or cranking. They had unspoken rules. A small rack held pamphlets on legit clean-needle clinics or drop-in places for addicts. They also had a big hand-written poster board with a marker hanging on a string, where customers were encouraged to leave warnings about bad street drugs—who, where, what and when info was appreciated.

In better days, Trula had the thought that this might well be a "permitted" outlet by authorities who knew exactly what they were peddling, as it served as a stop-gap between addicts and bad drugs and also served to inform those users who still had a little money how to not die accidently. As they apparently had never been raided, the idea made sense. More sense would be reducing the prices, but that hurdle might be intentional as well. It would be interesting to stumble upon a drug-company rep making a call one day.

As she walked over to the back-door through several nice residential streets around the university, Trula considered if she should write a note on the board about the probable fentanyl fakes over at the Jarmin street Tim's. She decided not to, as she had no proof, no corpses and no reason to tempt fate by changing anything. All she really wanted to do was get in and, hopefully, come out quick with a few pills to see her over Sunday and Monday.

The prescribed route to the store was down a main street, through a public walkway and then back out onto the little street where the house was located. You were encouraged to walk right up, as this was, of course, a legitimate business. The sign out front identified the century house with the big front porch for its herbal medicine advisory services, so walking around back to the rear entrance wasn't obviously unusual. Trula wondered if anyone ever went in the front door. She guessed that the boys might actually provide some pretty good advice in that legitimate regard, as they were both east-Indian and had, rumour says, actual pharmacist credentials from home.

As she turned in to the house she intentionally looked up and smiled. She was assured that the camera mounted over the side walkway was only to a TV screen inside and not to any recorders. She knew that a motion detector beeped when someone was coming around. It was a small safety device, but a useful one, given their actual trade.

Trula was rehearsing her plea for three 40's in trade for her thirty dollars plus the twenty-dollar retail bottle of Tylenol Ones. The T-1's were the real thing, factory sealed, not some Walmart knock-off. They would certainly take them, what remained to be seen was how much credit it would get her. She still hadn't eaten much in a couple days so it was a shame that she'd end up with no money again, but maybe pan-handling could help with that. She was looking a little scruffy and would definitely be needing some small change that she could turn into a burger or bowl of soup. It would have to wait though.

Unexpectedly, the door opened without any need for a knock. Trula looked up expecting to see one of the brothers but instead saw the tooth-missing grin of Alesandor, a.k.a., Alex B. He had a last name but it was Greek or something and had about twelve syllables. He was just known as Alex by many of the long-time, as in six months, customers of the store. He wasn't dependent like most of them, but apparently used a little now and then. He kept an entrepreneurial spirit alive, so was always buying or selling something to support his recreational interests. His loitering presence in the waiting room suggested that today he had some business dealings with the brothers.

He said, "Hey, Trula. How's it shakin, eh? Come-on in. I'm the official greeter now. Just waiting for my smart jacket and plaid pants. Think I should get a name tag too, but somebody's too cheap to spring for that."

He raised his voice for the last part of his declaration indicating that he was talking to someone other than Trula.

"Fuck off, Alex," came out from the open half door into the house. The precise English, with a distinct India accent told Trula that one of the brothers was correcting any impression that Alex might be giving.

Aarav came out with a branded bag from the herbal side of the business and handed it to Alex. It was unlikely to actually contain herbs.

He said, "Last thing we need is a huckster like you wearing plaid pants on behalf of the firm." He laughed and continued, "Three deliveries in here. Addresses on the smaller bags. Two across the road from each other, so even you shouldn't be able to screw that up. They're all paid. And don't be asking for a tip."

Alex took the bag and did an exaggerated half-bow. "So, does this mean that the doorman job is right out?"

Aarav grunted, "Was never in."

He now turned to Trula with a critical raised eyebrow. "You look like shit, missus. You eating? Sleeping? Drinking enough water? What's your blood pressure? Sit-down, we'll check that. You look a little anemic. Woman needs more iron, time of the month and all. I'll give you a supplement."

Trula was in the door, but hadn't moved much farther. The comedy duo of Alex and Aarav was entertaining enough, but she hadn't planned to say anything until she made her pitch for a slight discount on two pills.

Now she had to reply. "Uh, thanks. No. Not eating enough. Who is, eh?"

She grinned back, showing off her former-life orthodontist-corrected smile of bright white teeth. Anybody in the trade would be able to pretty quickly put her on only the first pitch of the long ski hill that ended in crack or heroin addiction. Giving up looking after your teeth was a way-station halfway down. Alex had done that run and found a lift back up again. He loved Trula's mouth for its reminiscent rich toothiness of the hill top.

Aarav nodded. "Well, warned is wary, I always say. But I guess that you can get that kind of advice at any walk-in right. What thing that only we do would you like today?"

Trula had never come in completely busted before, so probably came across as a still-working, just not rich, user who sort-of had it together. She hated that she was temporarily down and out, but hoped everyone would forget that next week. The store might even be a nice place to set up a little sponsorship fund that the boys could tap for truly needy people.

She responded, "Hoping to get three Oxy 40's just for the week-end. Kind of ran into a budgeting problem but I've got a few bucks and brought some Tylenol One's in to trade. She patted down her jacket pockets and continued. "Unopened. Bottle of a hundred. Sells for twenty-five at Shoppers."

Aarav looked at her skeptically. She had never begged a discount before. It was a bad sign that maybe she had run out of money. It would also explain her declining appearance and lack of energy. Eating properly was one of the first things to go when it came down to decisions on how to spend a meagre amount of money. He hated seeing the slide.

He replied, "Three would be sixty. How much cash have you got?

Trula tried to keep some confidence in her voice. "Thirty."

She smiled and continued, "Hoping maybe you'll allow ten for the T's and give me a break on the rest.

Aarav wasn't smiling anymore. "No, can't do that. I can allow ten on the Tylenol and maybe go three for fifty, just this once. You're still ten short."

He was starting to turn to go back into the house, but called back, "Do you want two or do you want to come back with some more money?"

Trula was downcast. Three pills were needed to get to Monday. This wasn't an option. She couldn't leave with less.

She tried, "How about putting ten on account. I'm cashing a cheque Monday. No problem after that. Just poor planning this week-end. You know I'm good for it."

Aarav was back in the house. The top of the split door was standing open. She could hear him but not see him. "Sorry, policy. No credit. Who knows where that would go, every strung-out user will happily promise payment Tuesday for a hamburger today?"

Neither Trula or Alex got the Wimpy reference. They both came from childhood homes where cartoons like Popeye weren't considered developmental enough. Alex looked at her and shrugged.

She had to give it another shot. "How about splitting a 60 or 80 then. Half and half y'know?"

Aarav came back to the door. "For an active user, you are pretty dumb, my dear. These are time-release tablets. Coated layers dissolve while it works it's way through your system. If you break it, you can get the whole load all at once. You'd go numb for an hour then be fucked-up for the rest of the day. Dangerous too, with an 80."

He turned away again.

Alex had been listening in on the back and forth. He knew better than to get in the middle of some other user's money problems, but he had a little thing for Trula and figured buying a little time with her that he wouldn't otherwise get might be worth some risk.

He jumped in, "Hey Aarv, how about I kick ten in from my fee and you help Cynth out just for t'day. No credit from you, just a loyal customer discount and she'll be back to pay full price for a couple dozen on Monday next, right Trula?"

He winked at her and made a shhh... sign with his finger. He closed his fist and slowly opened one finger at a time, effectively counting up to five. At his open hand, Aarav spoke up from the back room.

"Shit. Don't know why I do this. Mother told me to stay in Mumbai. Open a nice hundred square foot dispensary. Make my four million rupees and go home to six kids at night."

Alex wasn't letting him complain without some pushback. "How may rupees for your Beemer five over there, Arv? Guessin ya park it outa sight to keep up appearances or better, to keep down your appearance as a humble herb merchant."

Aarav came back out with Trula's three pills in a little paper envelope. True to his word he also handed her a small bottle of vitamins with extra iron for women. It was all very clinical. He took her offered money and the Tylenol bottle, said thank-you, then opened the outside door and waved them both out.

His parting shot was, "Friends like you two, I'll be poor again soon enough. Be gone and be careful."

Alex and Trula laughed as they walked back out to the front of the property.

Alex said, "Nicest guys around, those two. Too bad their customers are such shits."

Trula laughed. She was feeling lighter with her legit pills safely secured.

She said, "Thanks for the help. Will definitely pay you back next week. Wasn't kidding about the cheque."

Alex now laughed. "Not a big deal. Whenever you can will be good."

Trula didn't exactly know where to go, but she knew that she didn't have a cent to her name so needed to think about heading out to a public spot to try some panhandling. Alex was heading out to the condo towers off Bloor street with his delivery, so she tagged along.

After they walked a block in silence past the multi-million-dollar mansions and professional offices, he spoke up again.

"Let's get something to eat."

Trula shrugged, "Wish I could, but I'm broke now. That was my last thirty. I need to find a place to beg for loonies first."

Alex laughed. "Kind of guessed that. My treat though. If you'll take a little more charity from someone who is just a tiny bit less broke."

Trula wasn't sure if she wanted to add another person to her creditors list, but she was now desperately hungry. Even the possibility of eating was making her mouth water.

They had reached the main street and Alex would be heading east.

Trula asked, "Tim's or McDonald's then?"

Alex laughed and shook his head. "Fuck no. Those places are for the tourists. I expect to be served real food when I eat. Let me lead."

Soon enough they were sitting in Fran's Restaurant. Alex set his pack down on an open seat at their table.

He said, "Don't let me leave without that. I've been known to leave my head behind."

Trula smiled. "If it has drugs in it, believe me, I'll never let it out of your sight."

They were acquaintances, but not conversational friends, so the first couple minutes sitting facing each other were quiet, with the menus and "Anything to drink?" discussion with the waitress filling in some of the space. They both asked only for water, which Trula drained almost immediately. Aarav had been right, she needed to drink more water. At least it was free.

A nine-dollar breakfast plate immediately attracted Trula's attention as both a huge amount of food and as a comfort that she had been missing. She didn't know how far Alex's charity would stretch, so considered winding her choice back to coffee and toast, but then he turned his menu around and pointed to exactly the same item,

He asked, "How about two of these. Then we can waddle up the street together."

Trula grinned. Perhaps the man was a mind reader. "Sold."

The meal put them both in a more relaxed mode, in spite of about four coffee refills. Trula felt absolutely stuffed after really only nibbling at food for the last two weeks. With a heavy load of carbs and sweet pancake syrup, she expected that she might fall asleep on her feet on the way home. She liked Alex well enough before, but now reassessed that he was the kind of guy who easily saved people in need. Did he see she was on the brink and knew that he had to respond or was he that kind to everybody?

Once they got talking, they had a nice back and forth about life as it used to be. Turned out, they both came from perfectly OK homes. There was no excuse there. They shared feelings about losing connection with that world well before they had a drug habit. They shared their painful disconnect moments. Alex's came through a car crash with a lot of pain that never went away. Trula talked about her emotional pain in a circumspect way, as in lots of little failures adding up. She was too afraid to admit that her life really went off the rails when she began intensive reality switches to try to meet others' expectations. She knew this was a taboo subject; in spite of his open nature, Alex would fly off like all of her other past friends. Don't talk crazy-talk; her mother had said it to her many times and it eventually stuck.

Alex finally asked, "So what's your plan for panhandling or whatever, to raise some cash?"

Trula shrugged. "Just find a busy corner somewhere I guess and start asking. Maybe get a takeout cup to hold out."

Alex rolled his eyes and asked, "Gonna plead for a meal, while burping out this one or maybe headline the need for a ticket home. To where again? Thornhill was it?"

Trula shook her head. "Better make it more ambitious. How about Etobicoke? Needs a town bus ride in addition to the subway. Very taxing.

He grinned. "Sounds like you're gonna be one of those grumpy beggars who call out bad names after stingy stiffs."

She wasn't very committed. "Yeah, probably will. Talk to my imaginary dog and wear a kerchief above a misbuttoned coat too."

Alex laughed, "Think that schtick has been taken, plus you'd need to steal a grocery cart full of junk somewhere."

She slumped, finally admitting, "Oh, don't think I can do it. Maybe I'll just go home to bed."

Alex nodded, "You should. The other thing you should do is take another twenty on loan from me and forget the whole panhandling thing. Lots better ways to make money anyway."

Now she couldn't help but be suspicious. Friendly and generous was one thing, but overly free with cash was a bad sign. It usually meant some kind of hustle.

She tipped her head. "Like what?"

He grinned, "Like the little bag inside my pouch over there." He pointed to the third chair.

"Delivering each little lunch bag earns the courier half of the thirty bucks Aarv charges for delivery. It's not just convenience for these phone-in customers. They don't want to risk getting caught. Most tip too, in spite of what he says."

Trula wasn't getting it. "Yeah, but how many delivery guys do they need?"

He shrugged, "Well one they could keep wouldn't hurt. I'm just the fill-in. Arv likes you. Plus, there's Bob the Mover."

She groaned, "Did that a couple times. Not strong enough or in good enough shape for moving."

He laughed, "Yeah, but I bet you would be a mean packer."

"Packer?"

"Yeah. Don't worry, Bob's legit. He gets moves where they just want to walk out of one place and into another. Businesses mostly, some condos too. He needs reliable, skilled on-calls who can blow in for eight or ten hours, weekend or end of the workday, pack stuff up, then unpack it at the other end on the same night. Sounds easy, but takes a lot of non-stop energy and some smarts. Wrapping, handling fragile stuff, knowing how to pack a carton. Staying out of the way of the big guys wheeling furniture out and in."

She grinned. "I guess I could probably do that."

He nodded. "I'm sure you could. He doesn't pay legit hourly, just maybe a hundred for both ends, but there's tips there too. He would love you. You're clean, smart, don't drool or need to stop every twenty minutes for a smoke. Not a thief, I trust. No shakes. You're rare in the call-out pool, if you don't know it. Course you'd have to put up with his weird jokes and constant hustle. But he's honest. Pays cash on the spot too."

Alex got out some of his cash to pay the bill. He slid a twenty over to her.

"You're into me for thirty and a breakfast. I'll expect both back within the week."

He added, "If you are really cashing a cheque, buy groceries, pay your rent, do some nice stuff for yourself before you go back to re-up at the store. Course once that's all covered, go ahead and blow the wad on kickers. Just be ready for Bob's call, anytime. Guaranteed it will come at the worst possible moment."

He made a point of entering her number in his smartphone. His quirky grin highlighted his missing tooth. He wasn't embarrassed by it. Trula liked it. She couldn't help but feel that Alex might be the confidant she was looking for. Could she tell him that she would pay him back ten-fold in a week when Lotto7 paid off? Not yet.

### Chapter 5 – Sunday Sunshine

Early Saturday evening at home was made slightly more pleasant by the lingering satiation of the enormous breakfast plate naughtily consumed at four in the afternoon. Eggs, bacon, waffles, home fries and unlimited toast were all luxury items that had long ago fallen off her shopping list. Stuffing herself on the enormous plate was a gluttonous sin, to be paid for somewhere down the road.

She made the walk home in fine shape, but had to piss mightily by the time she hit the front door. Having evacuated one bladder full, she promptly got started on creating the next by drinking a large glass of tap-water. She retrieved her newest pill package from a zippered pocket along with the bottle of vitamins Aarav had so thoughtfully provided. She worked her way through the multiple layers of tamper-proof closure to finally dig one of the vitamins out to accompany the last of the water. Her enjoyable memory of the meal along with her new appreciation for a different kind of friend in Alex was making her pleasantly mellow, in spite of the growing ache in her muscles and bones.

Having her necessary meds in hand, but in limited quantity, was also a surprisingly comforting feeling. When the Oxy came in forty-pill bottles, each pill had the value of an aspirin; it was necessary to kill the pain, but of no intrinsic value otherwise. Now her three little blue tablets each held the potential for two days of somewhat-tempered pain that could be subtracted from the total of six needed to get to next Friday night. One down today; two down tomorrow. She thought she could do this.

It occurred to her that she was already three-quarters of the way through Saturday, so might be giving the first pill short-shrift by taking it now, while the next pills might be expected to do full duty for the entire day. She wasn't starving for the first time in a long while and was doing OK on Tylenol Ones left from her last open bottle. Considering that she was neither dying in agony nor pacing in high anxiety at the moment, postponing a pill until tomorrow might be the way to stretch coverage all the way to some point on Monday. Things going well, she should be in a position to get back to the store then for sufficient supply to get her through the entire week.

Having sort-of made that decision, subject to not crashing in agony before morning, she got back to the consideration of what to do with the blister-pack of contaminated street pills. She was carrying it casually in her backpack, but now put a much higher value on it, as in millions of dollars, so couldn't risk having it lost or stolen in her travels.

Her problem with any hiding place was the hidden part. She had excellent memory for most things, but knew that it might only take an unplanned spin-around in the shower or an unexpected violent sneeze to pop her out of this reality and into another one. That in itself wouldn't change the location or recoverability of the blister pack, but it might fuck-up her head enough that she wouldn't be sure where she put it. In the past, she hadn't been certain about odd things like how many white patches the stalking cat had in its black fur or the two birds now singing when she remembered three had previously been serenading each other. Or so she remembered.

That was the rub—her memory was just the tiniest bit suspect across the jump. Erroneous bird sitings were one thing; completely forgetting where she stashed these pills would be quite another. Keeping them on her person solved the problem, as long as she could protect her backpack. Working again, at any of the tasks that Alex had suggested, might make that difficult.

Leena came in for a pass-through house call just as Trula was finally committing to surviving without Oxy until morning. She did her routine check of Trula's condition with her typical "How's it going?" question. Trula was great and told her so.

"I'm feeling fairly empowered right now. Been a whole day and I'm hoping a night just on Tylenol. Seems OK for now. Just tapering, not cold turkey, but hopin it's a start."

Leena actually stopped her hustling around. She hadn't taken her coat off, so was definitely headed right back out. But she made a point of acknowledging her.

'That's good. I'm no expert, but little steps seem like a good idea."

Trula nodded. "Still got your twenty too, case you want it back. Got bought a nice lunch by a guy might get me some work. Just grunt labour packing fragile shit for a mover, but working more or less on my own at something I should be OK at. Hopin' it all works out."

Leena nodded back. "Hope so. That would be great."

Leena's BS detector ticked upward as she had this sort of conversation with Trula frequently, usually when she was on some temporary hiatus from continuous heavy use and promising to reform. The first couple of days were always upbeat, if not physically pleasant. The next few were sometimes miserable in disappointment as she fell off the wagon and just about overdosed in her relapse.

Trula hoped that pointing out that she still had the twenty, even though she really now had Alex's twenty, might help Leena believe her. She didn't really care what Leena believed most times, but until they were square on Monday, she felt that she needed to be reassuring. They didn't have a contract; Leena could leave. Soon enough, it wouldn't matter, but this week everything had to stay as much the same as possible. Who knew how many days back the dead butterfly might happen if she wasn't careful enough?

The overnight was no fun. Trula spent most of it up and pacing, not wanting to use up her first pill, but getting tired of the cloudy codeine haze of the T-1's and feeling a lot of pain anyway. Tiredness overtook her in the pre-dawn hours and she fell into a frenzied sleep full of weird dream vignettes that popped her awake ever twenty minutes. By dawn, she was finally just passed-out beat and slept more soundly for a few hours.

She got up around ten, shaking and in real pain. It wasn't cold, but she felt like she was freezing. In strange contrast, her pillow was damp with sweat. The experience wasn't new, she had done this before, usually in disgust at her weakness. But, this time, she had a goal and a plan.

Wrapped in her blanket, she talked to her ragged-self in the mirror. "After that night, I'm owed."

The pill envelope was on her dusty dresser. Number one went down with her first sip of water. Numbers two and three called to her briefly. Her idiot brain was even going through various scenarios for using them today. She had the twenty and could probably bum another ten off of Leena, if she was here. A new pill wasn't needed until tomorrow night, so she had some time to get more money. A second one right now would eliminate all of her pain and give her a fine mellow buzz for the warm and sunny day out there. She knew one wasn't really enough for her. Why not just enjoy herself instead of going through agony for no reason?

The wall phone was ringing. For a moment, Trula couldn't place the intermittent bells; the phone rang a lot less lately. Leena did all of her communication by smartphone. Until recently, Trula did as well, but her older cell was now dead in her drawer as she decided not to pay the bill for about four months. She was actually amazed that the cellphone kept working for quite a while, but eventually it went to emergency call status only and then she forgot to charge it.

The wall phone was included in the legacy phone plus TV plus Internet package that they once valued, but now mostly didn't use. That it was ringing caused her to consider which collection agency type might be calling for the twentieth time; but then she considered that they had some sort of rule about not calling on a Sunday morning, thank-you Jesus, so that probably wasn't it. She decided the odds were good that it was someone who just called an old number trying to get hold of Leena. The cheapo voicemail was always full with scam calls or threats from various money seekers, so if she wanted to know who was calling, she needed to answer it.

'Hello?" Trula spoke as if she thought maybe the phone was ringing for some other reason and there was actually no-one there.

She was met with a huge noise that appeared to include pop music, the inside of a muffler-less truck cabin and half-a-dozen people talking at once.

"Shut-the-fuck-up!" the gravelly voice commanded.

She blinked. She had only tried to answer.

The voice continued, "I'm on the phone here."

The music stopped suddenly, but the cabin noise and an odd random voice didn't.

He finally spoke to her. "Is that, uh, Trula?"

She had no idea who this was or why he was calling, so wasn't giving up anything yet.

"Who's asking?"

"It's Bob." The noise picked up again so that he was barely audible.

"Who?"

His voice moved away form the phone mic. "I told you asses to shut-up, didn't I? I'm on the phone here. Fucking manners of three-year-olds."

As if remembering that he had been asked a question, he came back to her.

"Sorry 'bout that. Bob. Uh, Robert Bailor Moving?"

When she didn't respond, he continued. "Your buddy." Faintly, he added, "What the fuck is his whole name?"

Somewhere behind him, she heard someone say: "Alesandro."

"Yeah, Alexander. Him. Said you're good to work."

Trula was starting to connect dots. "You mean Alex? Yeah, he said something yesterday about maybe packing or something. Are you Bob the mover?"

He grunted, "Thought I said that. He said that you're a little slow, but didn't say anything about bein' deaf."

Trula heard this and reacted. "He said what? What do you mean by slow?"

Bob was laughing out loud. "So, you heard that part, eh? Guess deaf is out."

Trula wasn't sure if she was too happy about a nuisance call on a Sunday and thought about hanging up.

"What do you want?"

Bob apparently had to beat back an attempt to turn the radio back on as she heard a brief musical snippet, then nothing but cursing and rustling pocket-noise for a moment.

He came back. "Sorry, I take back the three-year-olds part. They're dumb as dogs."

More swearing and laughing took over the conversation.

He spoke away again. "OK, some dogs probably are smarter. Now fuck-off, while I finish this call."

Trula waited for him to come back to her. She was getting an idea of how this worked.

Bob asked, directly to her, "So, where are you?"

She blinked again before answering. "What do you mean, where?"

"So, we can pick you up. Where's your place. We're on Davenport. Alexo, or whatever the fuck his real name is, said you were around St. George."

"Pick me up? You mean to work today?"

"That's what we do, dear. Need your warm body right now. No further offense to your intellect intended. Water pipe broke. Got two records vaults to pack up, knock down and move to dry-ground. Take us maybe six hours, if these ANIMALS can get their hungover asses in gear. You hungover too? Maybe that's why this conversation is taking ten minutes more than it should."

He paused, then continued, not to her. "Turn there. Yeah left, you moron. Right is somebody's bloody driveway isn't it? Fuck me...if he only had a brain."

He sang the last part. This guy was a human rights complaint in progress.

He was back to her. "Go ahead, Cindy. Address right now."

She was on the spot. Her body was screaming at her to hang-up and get back to the pill consideration, but somewhere in her dusty cerebellum, a recently unused voice was saying: "Fifty or sixty bucks would be very useful." A few hours of this sounded a lot more productive than panhandling.

Bob wasn't interested in thinking time. "Suzy, you there. Address? No time to drive in circles searchin for ya."

She mumbled her address. Bob repeated it to the driver.

"OK, five minutes out front. Closed shoes. Bring extra dry socks. Not sure if we're standing in water. Gloves, if you got yer own. Not important though, you'll jus be handling files. Tie yer hair up or wear a hat if ya got long hair. Think they shut the water off. Bring yer own water bottle."

Click.

Dial tone came back. She was left staring at the receiver in her hand. Why did this feel familiar? She felt something moving around her but she grabbed the doorframe and hung on. The shift didn't happen. She came back to the same present, just at the survivable edge of panic.

She yelled out, "Shit! What have I just agreed to? Five minutes? How far is five minutes?"

For some stupid reason, Trula's first and only constructive thought was where she could find a water bottle. She moved. Twice around the kitchen opening cupboards produced nothing, but a look in the fridge found a clear plastic throwaway version half-full in the door. She had no idea if it was hers or Leena's or how long it had been there, but she grabbed it and topped it up from the tap.

Shoes were next. She had runners. They were beat up but her toes would be covered. They'd do. She had a baseball hat, but her hair was short. Did that mean she didn't need the hat?

"Fuck, Fuck." She grabbed the cap anyway. This was hard. She could feel the seconds crawling past her on their way out the door.

That was about it. The job was inside. Was it hot or cold? She didn't need a coat outside today. Her sweat shirt would have to do. She was supposed to bring extra socks for some reason. She wasn't wearing any, but she went into the bedroom to get a pair anyway. As she was digging for them, her first real spasm of pain hit and just as quickly went away. Three deep breaths fixed it. Her one pill was working, a little bit anyway. She grabbed her backpack. There were T-1's in there.

Then she stopped dead. She hadn't dealt with the blister pack of street pills for next Friday. She couldn't carry them in her bag and just leave it sitting around somewhere. No, she had to hide them. For a moment she considered the open sock drawer with its collection of random pairs and lonely singles. Good as any place? But, not secure. Wouldn't do.

Her next thought was under the mattress. It was the stereotypical place to hide anything. Porn mags, smokes, illicit videos; her brother had slept on a bumpy nighttime landscape for most of his teen years. Why he thought their mother didn't know all about it from sticking her hands in there to tuck sheets was always confusing. But maybe hidden was an agreed-upon fiction. Nothing truly illegal, good-old heterosexual preferences and a pack of smokes that took forever to get used up. Maybe the mattress stash was good news to the parents?

No, under her mattress was too obvious. To whom? Didn't matter; you don't hide something worth millions under your mattress. The spot had to be somewhere that only she would find, but also wouldn't forget. It came to her as an obvious smack in the forehead: the medicine cabinet. It was already full of expired or useless pills for stupid small problems like constipation or a runny nose. Her pills would blend in perfectly, tucked right in there with the others.

Three hundred little second insects had almost run past her feet. She rushed into the bathroom and jammed the blister pack behind some ancient Benalyn. Perfect. She grabbed her backpack, ran out of her room and kept going right out the front door.

Bob's truck made its presence known while still only a thumbnail a block down the street. Trula had no idea if the rumble was intentional or from injury, but the stretch-cab three-quarter-ton diesel roared into being first as a sound, and then as an expanding image coming up the otherwise quiet residential street. She actually felt a little connected to the sound as it said that there was nothing covert about the venture. When it arrived at her curb, the truck was a statement. Bob's name was on the door and his big-ass truck said, "Pay attention."

The jacked-up rig had a full bed cover that could well have been stacked with other recently recruited street labour for all she knew, but when it stopped all Trula saw was a back-seat trio of male bodies, all of whom were leaning forward and grinning at the prospect of another willing participant joining today's adventure. Bob himself, she guessed from the clues of her prior conversation, swung down from the open front passenger door and continued his winning ways by pronouncing her better than expected.

"Yer, er, Trula, right?" He had consulted a scratched note to get that.

She nodded.

"Well, that's great. You might work out, if ya got smarts t'go with the looks. Compared to these idiots anyway."

He waved his arm at the trio in back that obviously had been carrying on their losing ways after being compared to children and dogs. This was just sitting still. She wondered how full his metaphor bag was for describing them in motion.

Bob continued, not allowing any space for her to respond.

"This is the crew fer t'day. You'll figure out which of them to avoid pretty quickly all on your own. My take, they all shoulda been pushed over the side long ago. But I like t'suffer, eh? So, I keep callin 'em back. Your buddy, what's his name?"

She finally got room for two short syllables. "Alex?"

"Yeah him. Normally jumps on to give this lot some class, but guess he's doing his mother or somethin, so he's a no-show. But he gave you high marks as his stand-in. So, good enough."

She was still parsing the review to see if it was a compliment or a shot when he stepped aside and said, "Get in."

He meant to get in the middle of the front seat. Trula hesitated for a moment. Space was one of her defenses. Up there, surrounded by five strangers, she would be giving that up as well as any control of her situation. One more thing that was completely whacked for a Sunday morning. Most Sundays she'd still be workin on getting her feet on the ground. Now she was moving way-outside of both her comfort zone and her likely ability to roll with events. She tried to recall the last time she was this afraid of losing control. She couldn't come up with anything. This was jumping of a brand-new cliff without checking the water for rocks first.

But there was something welcoming about the truck cab. Somehow the smells of diesel and sweat were enticing. Maybe it was her brief introduction to the sitcom via the whacky phone call. Every one of the faces up there was grinning, like she was the best thing to happen to them all day. Gang rape was unlikely. Murderous intent seemed to be missing. Best of all, other than Bob's meaningless patter, she couldn't feel any judgement coming from any of them. This was a space-ship to planet teamwork. These guys might look dumb and be dumb, according to Bob, but she bet that they could execute. They were superheroes in ripped denim and stained t's. No recent shave, not having all yer teeth and, she guessed, even your habit, didn't matter shit to these guys. Bob said six hours; they'd do it in five. Misfits and laggards by bio, they were misunderstood all-star performers, at the one thing that mattered today: making Bob happy. After she'd attached her fantasy version of the "crew" to them, she was OK.

She found the door handle, figured out which foot to throw up to the chrome-trimmed running-board first and pulled herself up and in. The seat was littered with papers, gum wrappers and parking receipts. This didn't matter. She was stepping into her place on a team. She formed that idea and hung on to it for dear life as the truck roared off a fraction of a second after the door slammed behind Bob. The thumping music was back on. Bob lost that one.

The work site was deep in one of the downtown towers belonging, she thought, to a bank. But she couldn't be sure as they had entered off of one street and driven far-enough underground to be two streets over. Eventually, Bob's truck joined several others clustered around an open service door to one of the towers overhead. They pulled in a couple spaces away from the more official-looking city and hydro trucks. Several trades vans were also nearby. Varun, the driver, made a point of parking right across the line separating two designated handicap spaces. Perhaps it was a small show of self-importance to make up for the lack of rotating roof lights on their rig.

Bob was out first, but everyone else was right behind him. The truck cab had gone from slightly unpleasant while out on the streets, with the windows half-down, to be both stifling and aromatic once they headed underground. It was either the farts inside or the diesel outside. Varun, in charge of windows as the driver, had commanded them up as they came down the ramp in a blue cloud of diesel exhaust.

Bob apparently already had some instructions from his customer as he barked orders while moving towards the open double doors on his own.

"Trucks out; all the tubs are going in. Line-em up first. Wait til I come back. Rudy, wide white tape and markers for Miss Sunshine here. Varun, power pack and tools. Shelf units have to come down and go up again. Rest are humpin and bumpin. I'll be back. Don't fucking wander off."

He disappeared into the doors. With those brief instructions, the crew knew what to do. Everyone except Trula that is. She was struggling to find her spot, but Rudy, who she now figured as her middle seat counterpart in the back was waving her over. He shared Alex's gappy smile and apparent self-assured manner. Unfortunately, he spoke mostly Romanian or something similar, or so Bob said over the roar of the truck on the way over. She had gotten weird little facts about each of her co-workers via Bob's thumb or fore finger as he went around the truck. Nothing much useful, just the quirks.

Rudy pulled out a supplies container and was following Bob's directions in getting stuff for her.

He ventured, "Tu Trula, da? Sunt Rudy. Nice pare bine te-am intalnit, uh....hello. Aici! Tu est responsable de packing, yes? Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

Trula guessed that she was, although she couldn't quite figure how she could be in charge of anything as she had never done the work before nor had any idea what they were doing. Rudy was trying different languages on her.

"Sure, I guess. Nice to meet you to, Rudy. Sorry I don't speak German."

She realized that her name was fooling him, Trula was common in German. Thanks Dad. Too bad that any German-speaking family was two generations back.

Her four years of high school French did pop back into her head. She had nearly been fluent. Not a francophone, but certainly conversational. How was it that Romanian sounded just like French? Maybe he was French, but had passed through enough countries that it was diluted by whatever language or dialect was expected locally.

She gave it a shot. "Ou est-ce que c'est?" What is this?

Rudy grinned. French would be good enough.

'Tu emballé et marque les bacs. On les déplace."

She parsed it up and translated in her head. "You pack and mark the boxes. We move them."

She got it. She gave him a universal thumbs-up of agreement. Whatever they were moving had to come off of shelves or something and be packed in the plastic totes. She would mark each one. Typical. This wasn't about her management potential. Bob just figured the girl would have the best handwriting. Which was probably right; she loved organizing shit. This might be alright, after all.

The trucks were hand carts. There were four in the back. As the boxes came flying out from Rakesh, who had crawled to the front of the bed, the others grabbed them and made big stacks. Somehow, about ten high was known to be right. Each tub had a two-part fold-back lid. Eventually, there were eight stacks of ten or so, about eighty tubs in all. The trucks were jammed under four stacks and bungeed, which was a two-person job that no-one spoke to. They just did it.

Varun received a couple tall plastic pails and a giant toolbox from Rakesh. He was loading the pails with his selection of drills and hand tools. One was already jammed with extension cords and lights. A couple short ladders came out. Then, as if on command, they were done. Getting ready anyway. Three of the crew smoked. In spite of standing directly in front of a no-smoking sign, they lit up.

Trula thought she saw a shorter guy named Larry or Larvie or something like that, pop a pill. She immediately wanted one too, but hadn't brought her last lonely Oxy with her. A T-1 would make her dozy. She was determined not to live down to Bob's faux assessment of her limited ability. She was enjoying herself doing something productive. She used the smoke break to talk to the other guys. Anything but just standing around was good.

She asked, "You guys seem to know all about this. Is this normal work for Bob?"

A couple of them laughed. Larvie immediately spoke up. "Nuthin normal about Bob. His jobs range from small crisis to large crisis, with just normal crisis in the middle. Unplanned overnight moves are his speciality though. That's where we come in. You too, I guess, if you stick? On-demand grunts is us."

The others laughed again. She grinned. Us was a nice word, it seemed to include her.

She didn't want to be rude, but hadn't heard anything about pay yet. "Uh, how do you get paid. Does it take a while?"

Now toasted brown Rakesh piped up in proper colonial English. "No-no. The pay is quite OK. Varun, he gets more, as he has some papers, but for us, it is usually a split of whatever Mr. Bob charges the customer. Do you know? It's so many men, uh sorry, so many people, times so many hours. Some jobs are long and slow with only a couple of us. That's a lower person rate. Jobs like this one will be high rate. Quick, but expensive, for the customer. I believe that we should split a couple hundred, or maybe three. Sunday rush, considered. Mr. Bob will have a, what-do-you say, sob story and a reluctant roll of cash later. He will cry as he gives it up. Just don't be drinking it all at the bar, if that is your weakness. Mr. Bob usually buys late lunch, but beer is on you."

They knew she had a flaw. Trula guessed that they all did or maybe just some debts to get rid of. Again, her inclusion on the team came across with no judgement. Maybe, at least some of them, were pleased to have a woman along. She hoped that it might help keep the farts in check anyway.

Once Bob returned, they were in motion, wheeling the trucks. They passed various other guys working in corridors and up on ladders. Near-to their destination, the floor was wet. Paper stuck to the lower part of the wall, indicated that water had once been higher. There were distant sounds of grinding or cutting. Voices down corridors yelled the kind of asking and confirming details that trades guys seemed to need to do their jobs.

She heard, "Got that? Looks higher. Past there. OK, try it now. No, shut it down. Who the fuck put this shit in?" It wasn't clear how any of it related to a solution, but it was standard dialogue among the bum-crack crowd.

They were ignored by the other crews. It wasn't until they entered one of the storage rooms that they got the full attention of someone else. An employee of the customer company was there to read the riot act to them.

Bob briefly said, "Mrs.... uh, here will tell us how this is going to work. Go ahead, mam."

The middle-aged woman looked harried and a little damp herself. This obviously wasn't her best day. She must have already told Bob all of this, so looked exasperated at needing to do it all over again.

"OK then, for the final time. The old pipes are behind these walls." She waved to the left.

She continued, "Fortunately, nothing leaked in here except maybe a little floor dampness, but everything has to come down to replace the problem pipe end-to-end. We need everything in this room to go up to floor three. Two conference rooms there will turn into exactly these two rooms. You figure it out, but don't screw it up. One thing that cannot happen is for any files to be mixed up or lost. These are legal papers that may be needed in court cases still to come. Suffice to say, what is in them is private and none of your business."

She stopped talking, but six sets of eyes continued staring at her waiting for a punch line or maybe a happy ending to the story. She concluded, "That's it. Quickly, please."

Bob nodded and pointed her out the door. As they were leaving, he said. "These are the best around, mam. We'll get this done perfectly for you."

The moving crew looked one to the other and shrugged. If he said so.

Bob came back in. "OK, you heard her. Files go in tubs in order and intact. Cathy, you figure out how to do that."

He pointed at her. As she was the only woman, she had already figured he meant her.

He continued, "As soon as a set of drawers is empty, knock it down just enough to move and hump it upstairs in the service elevator. All hands here to start, then spread out. Let's move."

He left to go reconnoitre the destination rooms.

The other five guys all turned to Trula, expectantly. She looked from one to the other, then turned to look at the built-in file cabinets. Each was double-wide and four drawers high. They lined the room shoulder to shoulder. Twelve stacks in the room. Forty-eight drawers in each room. Ninety-six times about three feet per. Almost three hundred running feet. It was a lot of fucking files.

Trula said, "Gimme a tub." The crew started to move.

She scanned the file drawers. They were labelled by file number range. She pulled a drawer open and saw a finer break down with a divider for each hundred-number range. She pulled what she figured was the first fat hanging folder. The label started with a file number then a year and a month, then added more numbers and letters. Somewhere in a computer, the file number probably linked cases or clients to activities. So, each drawer was a block of files in order and each file a subset that added dates and client activity. Dropping even one of these drawer-fulls would be a clerk's nightmare to restore in order. She saw why the customer was nervous.

A tub was now open at her feet. She tested the very first file folder against the dimensions of the tub. The folder was way smaller and could move both up and down and sideways. Moving tubs with loose file folders would result in chaos when they tried to reload them. She scratched her head. Everybody else did too, but she was in charge.

She turned to them. "Rakesh, you got any cardboard in the truck?"

Rakesh looked very pleased to be called on. "Why yes. We have lots of flat boxes."

Trula needed to bring all of their experience in on the problem solution. She pulled a block of about four inches of files out and put them in the end of the tub.

'You tell me if this is gonna work. The problem is that the files can't be allowed to move at any time. We need to block them in. Maybe, slice the cardboard lengthwise to create a sidewall in here. We pack the files along the length, then block them in with the cardboard and fill in the side. The tub's ready when it's full enough to prevent any movement. Then we never tip them, right? Upright only."

She stopped talking and waving her arms. "What do you think?"

Larvie and Rudy were nodding. She wasn't sure what their education or experience was, but they were used to just getting directions. Anything was good by them. Rakesh was smarter. Somewhere back there he must have been something. She could tell that he was running the solution through some sort of internal simulation.

He smiled, "Yes, I believe that this approach should suffice."

Varun just shrugged. He wasn't a mover. He was a mechanic. He just wanted the paper out of the way so he could do his thing. She figured that she had agreement. Where the fuck was Bob, anyway? He'd probably come back and change the whole plan.

She decided to proceed as if she was actually in charge.

"I'll sticker each tub precisely for its corresponding drawer. Upstairs they come out in exactly the same order. Long run down the tub first then one side bunch after the other. Unloader owns the solution too. Rakesh, bring some scrap paper too if we've got any. Everything has to be snug. No movement."

The crew was looking at her like she had arrived from logistics university or something. She was a natural.

She grinned, "Well, move it. Gimme a dozen tubs lined up the centre of the room. We'll unpack the first cabinet right now, carefully, so Varun can get at it. No movement of the tubs until the cardboard and packing is in place."

Larvie stayed with her and Rudy left with Rakesh to get the cardboard. They were underway.

The solution worked. The team concentrated on breaking down the first room, until the tubs started moving upstairs. The cabinets started to come apart and move out as well. They were halfway around when Trula figured that she had better get upstairs to see the other end. Rakesh had gone up to be the receiver. Larvie and Rudy moved tubs and cabinets.

Trula was walking towards the elevator when she realized how much pain she was in. Her low ache was starting to be a distinctive throb and her muscles were tightening up. She knew that she had to go past the truck to get both a T-1 and a long drink on her water bottle. She spun around and headed back towards the truck. When she was with the crew on the way in, none of the trades' guys had paid her any attention. On her own, she got looks from all of them and comments from a couple. Her street-smarts kicked in and she kept moving. But the attention wasn't bad. Considering that she showed up here half-awake with bedhead and zero make-up.

When she got to the truck, Larvie and Rudy were having a smoke. They jumped like she was a supervisor. Fuckin amazing what playing the part got you.

She smiled and waved. "Relax guys. Just needed a break too. How's it upstairs?"

Larvie grinned. "Backed-up. Their planning sucks. Had to block off a door to line the cabinets up. Then that became a fire exit issue. Phone calls. Yelling. Still not settled."

She sagged. The perfection of her plan depended on others. She assumed that's where Bob was. They could slow down on the packing end. She needed to sit down.

Rudy went back in. He was a bit of a keener along with Rakesh. Larvie stayed.

He asked, "You look a little rough. Need something to get over?"

She looked up at him the way a starving person might regard a waiter holding a platter of food

"Uh, now that you mention it, yeah. Kind of ran out the door without packing, y'know."

He smiled. "Sure. Done that. Got some percs if ya want some."

"Oh, fuck. Yeah. I'll owe ya."

"Think nuthin of it. I'm a vet. Covered. Got some pot pills too, if ya want one of those."

Trula smiled. A guy with an unlimited prescription pad. This was finding gold in a salt mine.

She responded, "Larvie, you are my hero. Twice, I guess. Once for service and all that."

"Ya, well. I was a cook at CFB Borden. Feedin "em counts too, I guess."

"Have I got your name right? Never heard anyone called that."

He grinned. "Ex-Corporal Larvie at your service. First name is Richard. But never use it. Habits die hard."

Trula grinned, "Mind if I do, just between us?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Richard. You rescued me today, if ya don't know it."

He just smiled and headed back in.

The combo pills were already starting to round out the pain by the time Trula got to the third floor. She was feeling a lot better. Fine, even. Good thing too, as the conference room was in utter chaos with tubs all over the place and partly assembled cabinets sitting at angles up and down the walls. Across the hall a matching room was in no better shape.

She couldn't help herself as she entered. "What the fuck is this?"

It wasn't until she was fully in the room that she saw Bob and the customer supervisor leaning over a table behind one of the cabinets, working on a piece of paper that apparently was the latest attempt at getting the cabinets restored in their new home.

She blushed. "Oops. Sorry about that." Bob grinned. The customer scowled.

Bob waved her over. "Need your massive brain power here, Carolyn. How do you divide twenty-four by three along six walls, as that's the longest run we can get without blocking the doors or windows?"

Trula stared at the paper, covered in many scratch-outs. She looked at both of them.

"Why can't you block the windows. Got lights, file cabinets don't need a view."

The other two looked at each other then back at her. Bob wasn't a concepts guy and whoever the supervisor was, she thought that she had to be neat.

Trula closed the sale. "Temporary anyway. We need to get these tubs back into the files before one gets dumped. That would be trouble."

It was enough. Fucked-up records trumped aesthetics. They were back in motion.

She was tempted to start giving Varun directions, but then consciously put the brakes on. She risked going a little manic on the percs. It was a collateral risk of the sudden warm high she was on. She spun on her heel and moved over to the scattered tubs to methodically assess if her plan was working. The tubs appeared randomly dropped, but were actually in pretty good order. As soon as the first couple of cabinet stacks were secured, the files could start to go back in. It would work. She could go back downstairs to complete the packing then come up to supervise the reload. It was all good. She smiled to herself.

As she turned to go, she walked smack into Bob, who had been coming over to talk to her. At inches apart, she now picked up that he was older than he looked and probably a lot smarter than he let on. He was grinning at first, but suddenly wiped the grin.

Trula had a moment of, "Oh-oh". Had she fucked up? Once upon a time, she might be getting ready to spin out of there.

Bob maintained the stern face for a moment, holding her close by the forearm.

He growled, "That was nice. This is all nice." He was pulling her leg.

He now stepped back and grinned again at her. "Yer kind of a ringer aren't ya. I mean, this is old stuff fer ya. Worked in movin before? Maybe run the show too? Pretty obvious, yer used to callin the shots."

Trula couldn't believe it. She wasn't anybody's ringer. She couldn't even hold a bloody job. She and computers didn't get along. Every job was run by a computer. And an ass-hole supervisor. She had assumed that she just sucked at everything.

Eventually the job took on a flow as cabinets started to go up quickly. The packing slowed to ease the backlog and more hands got on the cabinet installation. Varun took over as the task director. Bob kept the customer out of the way.

As she moved up to unpacking, Trula stated speaking out loud about what she was doing. She spoke to the labelled cabinet as she touched it. "301 to 399." She spoke to the tub as she opened it. "301 to 349. That's half of them. First out, first in. Let's go."

The files went back exactly where they had come out. As Richard and Rakesh got free of assembly they picked up on her style. Soon all three of them were chanting the brief mantra, reloading files into the correct drawers and getting everything in the correct order. Richard had heard it before. Getting planes off the ground or big guns locked on the right target—verbal confirmation of checklists worked.

When they were done and packed-up, in just under Bob's desired six hours, the crew took on a little of the post-game euphoria of winners. Bob said that they all deserved lunch so didn't even suggest the option of heading directly home. He pointed Varun out Queen West until he saw the restaurant-bar combo he was looking for. Maybe they were too sweaty for polite public engagement? They didn't care.

Soon they were around a big table in a corner. Bob even sprang for the first round. He was pretty sly about it as Rakesh didn't drink, Richard just asked for water, Varun had to drive and Rudy just wanted a coke. The waitress came around to Trula near last. If she recognized her as female, she made no distinction in her method for getting the order. It was down to her and Bob. She looked at the others and ordered a draught.

Bob laughed. "Thank-God. At least one other set of balls at this table." He ordered a draught too.

It was obvious that Bob's demeaning chatter was a put-on, for before and after work only. On the job they were all brilliant hard workers. Trula guessed he spent some time in, maybe hockey, change rooms. She had only done one team sport—softball, but had done it well-enough to be on the high-school varsity team. She recalled that the most derogatory goads and put-downs came from the most-loved of the team characters. Maybe it was leveling or maybe some people just weren't any good at any other kind of humour. The same comments directed at any team member outside the locker room by anyone else would see the big mouth going to the wall in their teammates defense. Trula always considered it good practice for relentless clever harassment of opposing players while the game was on. After the game the teams shared pizza and pop with no harm done.

She was just about done here from the slow runout of the percs, the hard work they had done and a complete lack of any food since Saturday afternoon. One beer would be it or they would be carrying her home. She considered that six or seven hours ago, she knew none of these guys, had no idea that she could work that hard and, certainly, had no concept of herself as a winner. It had been a long time since she had any friends that didn't come from a pharmacy.

Too bad that this was a one-time thing. As of Friday, she would be able to buy a moving company if she wanted to. But, why? Even now, the money was only important because she had none. Making profits off other people's sweat and misery wasn't anything she wanted.

Later, as she was dropped off, Bob stepped out of the truck and peeled off four twenties.

He said, "It's a little more than I would normally pay a first day fuck-up, but then you aren't that are you, Trula?"

Shithead—he knew her name all along. It was his way of telling her, don't get ahead of yourself.

He continued without waiting for an answer. "I know this can be shit work. Today was clean. Lots of jobs aren't. Some guys do well-enough and still disappear. Maybe to better work—who knows? If you want to come again, I'd love to have you. Boys up there would too."

It was all he said. No, "I'll call you's" or promises. It was kind of like a weird first date that went spectacularly, then ended with a no-commitment handshake. He was a gentleman boss after all.

His question hung in the air as the big truck roared away. Was she a fuck-up?

### Chapter 6 – Monday Monday

Leena spent all of Sunday away. "Trula's problem was her drug-dependence." Leena said that over and over to herself, but usually the other way around—being drug-dependent was Trula's problem. Saying it that way made it easier to emotionally separate herself from the person she cared about and who she knew she was losing. She elected to be almost anywhere else these days because she couldn't take Trula's agony. She loved her, but didn't want to be around for her impending final downfall.

Once, her at-home time was her happiest, as she had no other real friends. Answering Trula's ad for a roommate got her a new place to stay and with a little time, an empathetic friend who could relate. They both had emotional and psychological baggage. Baggage was a term her counsellor once tossed out, when trying to make the pain in her body seem to be something she could just willingly set down.

He said, "Get rid of the baggage you're toting around and you'll have strength enough for friends." It sounded good, but his feet up, leaned back generalities didn't give her any means to shed a lifetime of insecurity. She tried applying the same logic at arms-length trying to figure out Trula's recent inability to hold a job. She guessed that she was carrying too much else to give proper effort to work. She would have loved to tell her how to fix that, but she had no idea what was going on in her head, so couldn't be of much help.

Leena had her job locked-down but couldn't hold a friend. She worked lots of unpaid hours to make sure her output was beyond expectations. Being an out-performer did nothing for her social connections. It probably made them worse as less-focused workmates tended to shun her.

She never asked for medication for the constant pain in her heart. Occasionally, when Trula was laying back and smiling in pill-induced bliss, Leena longed for the same relief. But she would never touch opioids.

The two of them might have seen it through if the money thing hadn't become such an issue. She couldn't carry Trula any longer; unfortunately, it was time to leave. The new shared apartment had everything, except a real friend in residence. She knew that her new flat mate wouldn't ever be anything but a stranger who barely spoke English and had all her focus on family in some foreign land. Distant parents bought her the place, so she said. She was supposed to use it as her nest egg. It was on her to make money with it. Leena had no doubt that a year from now she'd be off to her next place and the spiffy apartment would be on a B&B list.

She came back home Sunday night to find Trula already in bed behind a closed door. She had shed her clothes on a path to the bathroom and then probably headed towel-wrapped straight into her bedroom. Leena guessed that she found a way to score something and was now passed out. The saving grace was that it was quiet. Leena picked up and cleaned up. She had lots to do to be ready for her job early Monday, so just kept on about her business. She wondered if Trula would remember her plan to cash out the insurance. Not likely.

Leena's Monday always started early with a shower and considerable time ironing clothes and doing make-up. She always tied her hair up, but she still made sure that it be sparkling clean at least every second morning. When she was part-way through her routine and clear of the bathroom she might knock on Trula's door to remind her of anything she knew about. Months ago, she would have made sure that she was up and moving to get to her job on time. Later it was to help her remember a doctor's appointment or counselor visit. In the end, it was just to tell her about what a great day it was, with hope that this day might be the one that saw her turn things around.

She gave it all up a while back when all she got from Trula was grief about interrupting her sleep or the start of a conversation that got as close to an argument as Leena allowed. The cause of those outbursts was almost always the second or even third reminder of something.

Trula would say, "Remind me tomorrow that I have to go over to the walk-in early. It's always way too crowded later."

Next morning, Leena would say, "Remember the walk-in opens at nine. You said you wanted to get there early."

Trula, "Yeah, I know that. I'm moving, aren't I?"

That evening, "Fucking walk-in. Lined up out the door. Couldn't wait."

Leena, next morning, "You want to hit the walk-in early?"

'Yeah, yeah. Mother. I know, I know."

Somewhere around the third or fourth day she'd actually get in to see a doctor to plead for a prescription renewal. She'd come home stoned on an exceeded dose and be barely coherent. The entire dialogue up that point would be forgotten with no apology. Leena finally decided that she didn't need the front-end grief so occasionally just took the back-end abuse when Trula missed something and wanted to hang blame on somebody else. If she would only say, "Yeah, sister, I appreciate your help," Leena would be happy to shoulder the blame.

Leena was almost out the door when Trula came flying out of her room. She was dressed in clean jeans and a tucked-in shirt that Leena hadn't seen since her working days. Her hair was tousled, but was clean and laying in a natural mess. She was beaming.

Leena smiled at her. Clearly something had changed in the last day.

Trula said, "Hey, good morning!"

She was giggling and continued, "You won't believe what a great day I had yesterday. Out of the fuckin blue, I'm out the door on a job call, meeting a bunch of great guys, taking charge and being complimented by the first boss that ever just stood back and let me go. Fucking Bob, eh? On a goddamn Sunday. Picked me up out here and we're working downtown rescuing some broken water pipe disaster half-an-hour later. Nicest guys. Did I say that? And I came up with the solution. Customer might have been my old bitch boss and I just put her in her place. Just call me Supergirl."

She had barely taken a breath. Leena stared at her. Occasionally, Trula's Oxy-enhanced dreams took on grand scale and were related later with the same vigour. When she was manic, Trula sometimes forgot to breath. Was this real?

She asked, "Wow, Trula. That sounds great. Was this connected to the guy who bought you lunch?"

She nodded, "Yeah, Alex. Guy barely knows me and he recommends me to Bob. I was so glad that I was straight enough to do it. Could have been much different if I'd been flush and cranked. Would have said no, or worse said yes and completely fucked-up. Somebody was looking out for me."

It was a rare moment of self-reflection on how far she had fallen.

Leena needed to go, but didn't want to just leave her hanging. She decided that it was a real story. For a few hours on a single day, something was different. Maybe that's how recovery starts?

She said, "Sounds like this guy Alex has some faith in you. That's a big deal, eh? I'd like to meet him sometime."

Trula was processing something and didn't say anything back for a moment. Leena was most of the way out when she spoke up.

"Hey, when should I come down? For the insurance thing, remember?"

Leena stepped back in. Trula remembering was another different thing.

She said, "How about around eleven? Call me from here when you're leaving. I'll look up the closest office and meet you there."

Trula smiled and nodded. "Sounds good."

Leena was finally out the door, smiling too.

Trula was pleased with herself for having a second situation under control. Yeah, Alex did have faith. Bob, too. And Richard and Rakesh and Rudy, too, for that matter. They all did. It was weird that five guys had just dropped into her life like that. For the first time in a long time the people who mattered to her wouldn't fit on one hand. Leena was number six, she guessed, still.

With the day under way, she could now come back to the pressing problem of her meds. She now had a hundred bucks in hand. She suspected that the insurance thing wouldn't be cash handed across the counter. Maybe they'd cut a cheque, but she'd probably have to sign that over to Leena to turn it into cash. Her bank would try to sit on it forever like they always did if she took it there.

For today, a hundred was it. The good news was that she could finally drop a legit tablet now and be in pretty good shape for the rest of the day. Ninety would get her at least four or five more later, which was now looking a lot like a pathway to Thursday anyway. She kinda wished that she had grabbed Richard's phone number as he sounded like a guy that might help her out in another crunch. If they worked together again, she would do that. Of course, he'd get it back ten or a hundred times over after the lottery win.

Would Bob call her for work again this week? She didn't know shit about his business, but it must be more than the odd week-end disaster. The truck said he was a moving company. Alex said that he needed packing help for that too. Could she call him and see if he has anything for another sixty or eighty to get through? There were lots of possibilities, something would click. It always did.

Leena always considered details. When she had a moment at work, she looked up the location of the insurance company office nearest her. It turned out to be the Toronto headquarters in a tower about a two-minute walk away. She had no idea how to cash in a policy, so waited on hold for quite a while, then spoke to the knowledgeable, but decidedly unfriendly rep, who at first wouldn't give her any information at all because she wasn't a current policy holder. When Leena convinced her that her "sister" was unable to use the telephone, she got some basic information that included instructions for downloading and sending in a form.

There was still resistance from the rep. "But wouldn't you prefer to speak to an agent? I'm sure she could give you a complete recommendation for what you should do."

Leena, "No. She just wants to cash out the policy as quickly as possible."

After a long pause the Rep finally said, "Oh. Well, once we receive it, we'll issue a cheque in ten to fifteen days."

Leena, "What if we bring in the form?"

Rep, "To where?"

Leena, "To your office."

Rep, "Oh, I'd need to make an appointment at a branch for that."

Leena, "We'd just be dropping off the same form that you said we can mail in."

Rep, "Well, it gets forwarded to our Toronto office; the local office would need to do that for you and you need an appointment to have someone look after it."

Leena, "Where's your Toronto office?"

Rep, "Uh, 38 University Ave."

Leena, "You there now?"

Rep, "Yes."

Leena, "What floor are you on?"

Rep, "Uh, it doesn't come to our floor."

Leena, "I know, just wondering."

Rep, "Oh. Floor four."

Leena, "Are you near a window?"

Rep, "Uh, yeah."

Leena, "Well stand-up and wave, because I'm looking directly at your building right now."

Rep, "Oh."

She wondered if the rep was actually standing and staring out the window. Once you got a first action, the second was much easier.

Leena, "Sorry I missed your name when you said it up front."

Rep, "It's Stephanie. We don't give out last names."

"That's OK, Stephanie. My name is Leena. Here's what you'll do. Let reception know that a customer named Trula, that's my sister, will be dropping off a form for immediate attention, rather than mailing it. We'll be in around noon."

Rep, "Oh, OK, I guess I can do that."

Leena, "That's great. Very nice talking to you. You've been a real help. I'd love to provide feedback to your supervisor. We'll definitely include a thank-you note in with my sister's form."

Rep, "Uh, thanks."

Leena, "Bye-bye now."

Long-ago, Leena learned that flattery and gratitude always got you farther than criticism or threats. Being direct also helped. She worked in a big company. She needed others to do things for her. No-one ever wanted to go out of their way or to set aside policy. But she usually needed them to do just that to move things along at her required speed. Some were immune to manipulation, but most, in particular men, just loved feeling special. Cost her nothing and it got results.

She was glad that she placed the call, as Trula would probably have stormed into the building completely unaware of process and ended up getting thrown out by security after howling and swearing at some poor front-desk person who had no authority and would have no idea what to do with the request anyway. Leena would print up and fill in the form along with an envelope to hand it in. She could assure Trula that it was being expedited for a return cheque in just a few days.

If the rep said fifteen days, it would probably take a month. Big companies loved hanging onto little people's money. The delay wasn't a problem for her, but she guessed that Trula already spent every cent she had, assuming that more was coming immediately. She would have to decide once again if she would loan her more to carry her over.

Trula called right at eleven. She was ready to come down on the TTC, having scrounged together enough loose change for the down and back subway.

Leena advised, "Talked to your life insurance company. Bad news, takes them a few days to process a cash-out request. I argued a little, but nothing they can do today."

Trula seemed to shrug over the phone. "Yeah, kinda figured that they would have some shit like that to do. So later this week then?"

"She said that they would process the request as fast as they could. Told them it was important."

No lie there.

Trula groaned a little. "No sense coming down then, I guess."

Leena felt it would be a good time to tell her about moving out.

"No, no, come down. You can hand in the request on the required form. That will get rid of any mail delay anyway. I printed it for you. Just needs some last details. You have your statement, right?"

Trula gasped, "Oh shit. Woulda left without that." She added, "Dummy."

Leena never used self-deprecation. She didn't see what good it did.

She continued, "I'll meet you on University at the north-east side of the St. Andrews subway exit. Their office is right there. We can get some lunch after."

Trula wasn't used to people buying her stuff, but this would be the third paid-for meal in three days.

She responded, "Uh, Ok. Sounds good. Ate a big meal after work yesterday, but I could eat again sure. Half an hour?"

Leena stayed pleasant, but had good reason to dread the lunch.

She signed off, "OK then, see you."

The office visit went pretty much as planned with the front desk person even aware that an envelope was coming in. She smiled and said that she would run it up to the correct department right away. Helpful Stephanie had laid the required pipe. Leena hand-wrote an effusive note about her help in a "difficult" situation where the cash-out funds would provide a real lifeline for a person in need.

Again, no lie. In a few days, she could follow-up on that.

She asked, "Who would the responsible person be?"

If she knew, the receptionist wasn't biting. Defense of the bureaucracy was part of her job description. "Oh, just someone in the claims department. The supervisor, I guess."

It was enough. When she called back, Leena could say that she was advised to follow-up urgently with the claims department supervisor. They would talk a common language. Leena could move the file along.

Lunch was at a middle-east themed café on University Avenue. They got in early and grabbed an outside table before the lunchtime swarm arrived. Fall cold was threatening but the day still felt like summer. They split a grilled halloumi sandwich and a goat cheese salad. The little grill was a favourite of Leena's, as mostly she could nab a bench somewhere in the adjacent park with a wrapped take-out and do some reading at lunch.

Today was one of the few times she sat down at a table. She admitted to using the place to do both nice and nasty business. Some people needed to feel a little indebted to return a favour later. She could drop thirty or forty bucks here on a one-on-one lunch to start someone down a road she needed them on. Today wasn't any different, she guessed.

After they were most of the way through the food, she drank some water to get a clear throat. She wanted to get it out as information without any incriminations. She hoped Trula could handle the news without breaking down or going berserk. Prospects had to be pretty bleak when you cashed-out your last bit of money and suddenly had no place to live. Maybe she could still lend her some to find a place? Maybe Trula would find more work and survive somehow? It would be up to her.

Leena spoke up, "Uh, Trula. Something I need to tell you."

Trula had a mouthful of food. She was eating about three-quarters of the shared plates, but that was fine with Leena. She rarely did more than pick at food. Leena didn't say any more until she had her full attention.

Trula glanced at her. "OK. What's up?"

"I'm sorry to tell you, but I'm moving out." Leena expected either a tearful plea or an angry response.

Trula barely looked up from the plate she was working on.

She asked, "Oh, that's too bad. You changing jobs or something?"

Leena hadn't expected a civil question. "Uh, no. Just getting a different place, nearer to work—newer too, I guess."

Trula now smiled. "When are you going?"

Leena had a second shoe to drop. "You know that I had to put the flat in my name to satisfy the owner after you missed the rent a few times?"

Trula nodded. "Yeah, really appreciated that. Still catching up I guess, but hopefully just a few more days and I can pay you back."

Leena nodded. "That's good—but that's not the problem. He considers me the only tenant now; when I go you won't have the place. I already gave him notice. Just this month and next left, then we're both out."

Trula grinned. If Leena was confused by her prior indifference, this response was a complete surprise. Now she wondered if Trula was high. But she hadn't seemed to be at all.

Leena asked, "You OK? Sorry to spring this on you."

Trula shook her head. "It's alright. Knew it was coming. I'm actually amazed that you've put up with me as long as you have. I've been a shit so many times. Unreliable. Stoned. Unappreciative. You name it, I've come up with it. Drugs are the excuse, but I'm the problem."

Leena felt herself tearing-up. She had nearly been at this point so many times. Each time she balked and paid the rent for one more month hoping that something might change. Now finally resolved, she steeled herself for a terrible reaction on Trula's part, but got a sober, thoughtful confession instead. Was it a tactic to convince her to stay?

Leena responded, "I'm not blaming you for anything. I know that there's nothing you can do. But, I'm so afraid for you. If I could, I would stay—but I can't afford to. I'm running down my little bit of savings carrying things. It was OK for a while, but I'm out of energy. I'm so sorry."

Trula reached over and took her hand. "Leena, don't be sad. It will be alright. You'll see. I'll miss you a lot, but you know, maybe when things get better, we can get back together again. I have a feeling that lots of things will work out soon enough. Sooner that you might expect."

Leena was still confused. "What are you talking about? Have you arranged some treatment or something?"

Trula now laughed. "No, not yet. But I guess that will be a very good thing to do soon. Much as I might like to indulge my rich appetite for Oxy, it's gotta go, one way or another. Unfortunately, takes more money to get rid of the monkey than it does to feed it."

Leena let the promise lie. She had heard many versions of it as promises before.

"What are you going to do for a place to stay?"

"Shouldn't be a problem. Hopefully I can convince the owner I'm trustworthy enough to stay on or maybe I'll be looking for a better place too."

Leena wasn't getting it. "Are you counting on money from your new job? Is it steady enough to pay bills and, you know, still let you get the meds you need?"

"No, don't think so, at least don't know that yet. Bob's great, but it was only one job. Mighta been a one and out thing, unfortunately."

"Why wouldn't you give it a chance?"

Trula laughed. "You know, it was so much fun, I might just do that, even if I don't need the money."

Now Leena was worried. She was getting a feeling like Trula had some grand scheme underway. It might be a fantasy. Or, it might be illegal. She would know lots of minor criminals in the illicit drugs business. Maybe someone had her lined up to be a drug mule or something. A promise of a lot of money might be all it took. It would be a disaster. She hated the idea, but didn't want to know anything about it.

She needed to finalize the conversation. "Well, I wanted you to know. About me leaving. So, you have time to make plans, eh?"

Trula nodded, but said no more about her actual plans. "Leena, I can't say enough about how great you've been. You've been like a sister to me. Better, I guess, most sisters are shits."

They laughed together. Neither had a real sister. But everyone who did seemed awfully ready to complain about theirs.

Trula continued, "Guess you might choose a better sister than me, but I'll change. You'll see. I wish I could tell you more. Just a couple of days now and everything will change. You'll see, really."

Leena smiled as best she could. A tear finally worked its way out.

Sister. It was what she really wanted to hear, but she had to let her go. Trula was on her way to dying and Leena knew it.

Back from lunch, Trula had one priority—getting over to the back-door. A bunch of other niggling things like calling Bob, figuring out how to contact Richard and maybe getting together with Alex again floated around her like moths, never quite landing, but flying through her head often enough that the nuisance factor of needing to do stuff was starting to bug her anyway.

She knew that the growing irritation about "should do" things was partly due to her morning pill wearing off. She wasn't coming off a bender, so didn't have to deal with a crash-out that led to feelings of worthlessness and despair, but along with the returning intrusions of pain she knew that she would get tugged around by random emotions. She hoped that taking a straight line out the door and over to the back-door pharmacy would keep most of that in check. She should be happy. She had cash and could get some meds. Maybe five 60's for a hundred? That could work. She still might make Thursday, even if nothing else came along.

So why was she sad and irritated? Then she remembered that Leena was leaving. But no, she wasn't. She only thought she was. That's why it had been funny. As of Friday, they could buy the goddamn house if they wanted. But, why would they? They'd get a nice place downtown. Up high, if that's what Leena liked. Best of stuff. But she couldn't tell her how or she'd risk losing her for sure. It had to be a surprise. Leena being sad had made her sad. Friday couldn't come soon enough to get this shit behind her. She headed out.

Negotiations with Aarav proved moderately successful. He gave her six tablets for her hundred, but they were only 40s. Didn't matter that much, except that she would only really get a half day out of each. She faced the prospect of either a painful morning or a painful night. But it would let her scrape through, even if she didn't find a way to get some more money. She still needed to work on that.

She also knew that there was a real risk that she would double up and do more pills each day. One right now was really needed; two on each of the next tree days would make her feel OK. She'd get by. Being strict to stretch things out was smarter. Being smart was never really a consideration though.

Before she headed out, she asked, "Hey Aarav. Alex around at all today?"

The voice from the back registered a small, "You still here?" attitude, but was polite enough.

"He'll be back around five. Doing some end of day deliveries then."

There was a clock on the wall. She stared at it trying to figure out what five meant versus the three that the little hand was now pointing at. Two or three hundred thousand kilometres away. Not too much.

Trula answered, "Oh. OK. Thanks. He hooked me up for some work. Just wanted to thank him."

There was a long pause while Aarav was thinking. He was very private himself. Obviously, that was a good thing in this business. But he had a soft spot for some of his customers and let them in a little. Alex could help them too. If any were deserving of consideration—polite and still-healthy Trula was among them,

He must have given in. He called out, "Want his number?"

Trula grinned. She knew that this was a favour that maybe she hadn't done much to earn, other than understanding these guys had a business to run. She might look for a price break, but she always came with cash. She knew about the next rung down addicted crowd that would attempt to sell their shoes for their next hit. Aarav didn't need any well-used shoes

She replied. "Yeah, that would be great. He's such a good guy, eh? Definitely paying him back the favour soon as I can."

Aarav came out with the number written on a little sticky note. There was no name, just the number.

He said, "Memorize this, then eat it. He won't answer. Never does. But, leave a message—he gets back."

As an afterthought, he added, "Don't tell him I gave you that. And please don't leave it stuck beside a phone somewhere. He'll kill me if he starts getting blowjob calls."

Trula left laughing and considering the note. Without a cell, the getting-back part was a problem. She could walk all the way back to the house and use that phone, but she really wanted to hook up with Alex today. He might pass through here pretty quickly and Aarav wouldn't want her hanging out waiting, so she needed to let him know and maybe get him to find her after he was here. She could hang out at the reference library for a while and then come back over this way. That was all she could do.

She headed back out to the main drag to find a still-working pay phone.

She left a convoluted message on Alex's voicemail, that basically said thanks and I still owe ya. She ended by saying that she heard he might be by the back-door later and, if he was, to connect with her at the nearby Tim's. She headed over there when enough distance had passed, figuring she could nurse a coffee and read whatever paper she could scrounge for the last bit of waiting time. If he didn't show—nothing was lost. He had her home number already, so they'd connect eventually.

Sitting and watching other people devour sugary donuts didn't make her hungry, it made her lonely. There was the odd single person working on a computer or likewise reading every inch of a newspaper, but most tables had groups of people kibitzing about whatever meaningless topic made for good conversation over too-sweet coffee and heart-stopping pastries. She was hurting badly now and decided to take another of her tablets. It wasn't a donut, but it was her treat for the evening. Tomorrow, she would figure out how to get some more money.

Alex came in more or less when she expected him. He was on his way back from Aarav with the delivery bags loaded in his pouch. Trula had a moment of doubt about whether he was happy to be chased down when he surveyed the place with a stern face. As his eyes connected with hers, he broke into a big smile. He came straight over and crashed into the open chair at her table.

"Hey, Trula. I've been thinking about you all day. It was nice of you to call and hang out waiting for me. Guess you don't carry a cell, eh? Probably smart these days. Would have gotten right back otherwise."

Trula tipped her head. "Yeah, well along with rent, charge card payments, new clothes and usually food, my little helpers displaced the cell a long time ago. Some day soon I'll get another one, if they'll give me one."

Alex didn't ask for elaboration. Running out of money was a problem for anyone with an expensive dependency. The path to poverty was shorter than most realized and the end more desperate. He didn't have the problem now, but had been cut off once, when his choices were all bad.

He just nodded, "My number isn't actually a cell; it's an app on a server somewhere that answers telephone calls, then alerts me by text. Not being rude, just safe. I just assume that there's always someone gathering data."

He looked over to the counter and asked, "You got something to eat? Want another coffee and half-a-bagel?"

She nodded. "Sure. Dark Roast. Milk and a half. Toasted, buttered, cream cheese on the side?"

He grinned. "Done this before have you? You got it."

He hefted his bag up on the seat to be visible as before, then jumped up to join the short queue. Trula watched him go. On the way, he bowed and waved an older lady in ahead of him, then joked with a couple construction guys who came in behind. Trula could see the counter person light up as he must have complimented her before ordering. Guy missed his calling; should be selling Porsches over on Parliament Street.

The bagel was amazingly good. Trula had lots of room in all of her clothes as she didn't eat enough to keep weight on, but this week-end might have reversed the trend. It was all free food too. Couldn't ask for any better than that.

When they were mostly through cramming the bagel halves down, Trula started telling him about the amazing connection she made with Bob and the boys. She related a little of the on-site confusion, without being critical, then told Alex how planning-out and directing the novel work had come so natural to her. Feeling like he was understanding, she admitted that she had never been able to hold a good job, mostly because she was always an odd fit in places where conformity was expected.

He laughed and said, "You're describing me to a tee. I always write it off to my big mouth more than my work habits. I've bit my lip, counted to ten a dozen times, banged my head on the table, whatever; eventually it always comes out: the joke that shouldn't be told or the observation that mustn't be made. Some places, I just went back to my office and started packing up, knowing what was coming."

Trula laughed too. "You too, eh? Weird. Just not our world out there, I guess."

She knew that she needed to ask if he could hook her up again with some more work just for this week as she was flat broke and would need more pills for sure. While she was thinking about how to broach that, she realized that she had forgotten all about her pills. All five were still in Arv's little dispensing envelope in her front pocket. The pain was noticeable back there, but until she checked in, it hadn't been a distraction. Just laughing with Alex was an analgesic.

They were getting to the end of the coffee, so she was working up to asking, when Alex piped up.

"Hey, what are you doing now? Want to come along on my deliveries. All walking tonight, maybe twenty blocks in total, so we'll wear off the bagel. We can end up near your place. Just be a round-about way home for you."

Trula loved the idea. Somewhere along the way she could casually ask about Bob and how to get in touch for more work. If Alex just gave her the number, she would know that he didn't want to be bothered. If he offered to check, maybe he didn't mind looking out for her. Maybe he didn't mind having her around. Tim's was, after all, a place for being with someone.

Alex checked his list for where the customers lived and suggested a path to get to them most efficiently. Once they were moving, he didn't waste any time.

Trula wondered if he was late because of meeting her. But he gave no hint of anything other than being happy to have the company too. The first two deliveries were almost across the street from each other. One was in an older walk-up and the other was way up high in a condo tower. Both customers seemed to know Alex and were a little surprised to see he had a companion.

At the condo, he responded to the customer's inquiry about her. "Trainee. She flunked out of TTC bus-driving school so is trying out home delivery. We're starting our own company. Trouble is, she's stone deaf and can't read lips, so tough to ask for directions. Might not work out."

The customer looked one to the other and asked, "She's deaf?"

Alex nodded. "Yep."

He added, "Can't hear a thing?"

Alex shook his head. "Nope. Try it out. Say something rude."

"Uh...How about, I like your tits?"

Trula was busting, but kept a straight face and said nothing.

Alex chimed in again, "Other trouble is she had no manners, so says the rudest things back when she can't hear you."

He poked her; it was her cue.

She wrinkled her nose. "Smells like donkey shit in here. Ask him if he's still fucking that donkey?"

There was dead silence for a long moment, then they all grinned at each other and burst out laughing.

"You assholes! You had me going. Fucking guys...Wait here a minute."

He disappeared back into the apartment which actually smelled amazing and from what little they could see was very nicely done. He reappeared with a twenty and made a point of handing it to Trula.

"By way of apology for mentioning your very nice tits, dear. Have a great night."

They could hear him mumbling, repeating something like "fucking guys" as he closed the door.

Alex grinned at Trula and the twenty in her hand.

"Your first acting gig. That's for you and your tits, about which I agree entirely."

She mock-punched his shoulder and hung on as they made their way back to the elevator.

The third delivery was clinical. In another tower, with no ad-libs. This customer seemed to really be in need. He let out a big sigh when he finally had the little bag of supposed herbal supplements in his hand. Alex got the twenty this time.

The final delivery was up in the direction of her place at a big old house on a street with a couple of consulates and one of U of T's fraternity houses on it. These former mansions were big places. There was no sign of life at their assigned address. Alex said it was a first-time order here, so he didn't know shit about whether there were apartments or a side door or something. They walked up the broad front steps and he knocked on the front door. There was no answer.

Alex looked around the porch and was thinking about maybe trying to shove the package through a mail slot, when he noticed a small camera tucked into the top corner of the porch roof. It was nearly dark by this point, so it wouldn't pick up much unless it was infrared. He assumed that it was.

He whispered, "Don't look back, but we're on camera. Not normal home security rig—this is something high-end like. Shit's going on here. Let's just shrug and leave."

Trula had no stake in a successful delivery, so was happy to just be some unknown fundraisers or something, recorded doing absolutely nothing illegal.

As they were turning to go, the porch light came on. They had no choice but to turn back to the door. It opened inward. A severe-looking younger woman in stiff-looking clothes was staring at them through the opening.

Alex involuntarily said, "Oh-oh." He whispered to Trula, "Let me do the talking."

The woman looked them both up and down. She hadn't said anything yet, but opened the door fully and waved them in. If they had any hesitation, it was overridden by a large guy in a windbreaker coming around the corner of the front walk and closing off the front steps exit from the porch.

He came up the stairs towards them. He ordered, "Inside."

Inside the large foyer, more lights came on. The house appeared to be mostly empty of furniture, except for a table with a few hard chairs and a couch pushed up against a far wall in the adjacent room. The table had papers and a toolbox of some sort. There was a laptop open and facing away. It probably showed the camera feeds. There was a walkie-talkie blinking beside the computer. The overhead fixture in the room was the only lighting.

The big guy pointed and said "In." He was obviously a man of few words.

Alex nodded to the woman and then back to the man. "Uh, can you take the delivery? We're on a schedule here."

The woman finally spoke. "Whatcha deliverin?"

Neither person made any attempt to identify themselves.

Alex held the brown paper bag up and read the outside printing, "Herbal supplements, I guess. What the bag says. I just deliver them. Couldn't tell you what the fuck a supplement is."

'Dump it out." The woman pointed to the table.

Trula was finally getting that these were cops. This was a drug bust. She and Alex were now assumed to be dealers moving massive quantities of illegal narcotics. She felt her butt hole tighten up. She was actually glad for the spikey pain in her back and shoulders that was helping her maintain both control and focus.

Alex shrugged. He pulled the stapled closure apart and dumped the bag.

The contents were three little boxes labelled in Hindi or some other script. Smaller English type identified each of them as a kind of sexual aid, specifically for performance enhancement. The boxes appeared to be sealed.

Trula wondered if this was how the boys packaged heroin or whatever these cops were after. God help her and Alex if it was. Even first offence could put you in remand for a long time if you couldn't raise bail. And she couldn't.

The woman pulled on blue latex gloves and picked up the boxes one by one, examining the labelling and the lid. She smiled at the 'enhancement' theme.

"Nice packaging—very funny. Dump out the contents on this." She slid a metal tray over to Alex.

He worked the first box open with a finger nail and showed her a sealed bag inside.

She nodded, "Open it."

Alex didn't have scissors and if he had a pocket knife it was buried deep in his bag. He shrugged again and used his teeth to rip the little bag open. The contents appeared to be several types of finely ground leaves. He recoiled from the smell, before dumping it all on the tray.

The woman ran a pen through the little pile and got in close enough to pick up the same sharp smell that had put Alex off. She pinched a little and put in on a smaller dish. From her toolbox on the table she took out a bottle equipped with an eyedropper. She proceeded to drop some liquid on the edge of the mixture, then touched it with something that looked like litmus paper on a stick. The drop stayed the same slightly off-brown colour on the paper.

"Shit." She shook her head at her partner.

Now she was more demanding. "OK, you two. Where's the dope?"

Alex was sensing a temporary advantage, but didn't want to push it. He turned up his hands.

"Like I said. We just deliver stuff: pizzas, ready meals, groceries, you name it. No dope. Although I guess in a bit, maybe pot will join the legal delivery list."

The big guy in back finally piped up.

"Come-on kid. We know 'bout the racket. Call in a drug order and whatever ya want comes t'ya. Very slick. They usin you t'take the fall? Cuz yer gonna take the fall. No way out of this."

Alex had turned to look at him. He now looked at Trula and shrugged. He nodded to a blinking camera mounted behind the table.

He spoke up. "Sorry, uh constable is it? I'm not getting any of what you're talking about. What is illegal here?"

The big cop wasn't pleased by the response. "Empty out your pockets."

The woman cop had opened each of the other little boxes with the same result as the first. She came around and took Trula's backpack.

She pointed at the table. "You too. Empty all of your pockets."

Only now, Trula remembered her four pills in the bottom of her jeans front pocket. They were small and in a little envelope, but if she had to turn out her pockets they'd be fucked—not for dealing or distributing, but maybe just for possession without a prescription. They would certainly try to sweat her source out of her. She thanked her stars for the decision not to carry the street pills.

The male cope was busy examining the shoulder bag as Alex placed his pocket contents on the table. He was pissed that the bag was empty other than a cellphone, a small wallet, a few business cards for legit businesses and a bunch of candy wrappers and bunched up napkins. He stabbed at the cellphone, but found no call history or contacts list. Alex wiped it after each call. He removed Alex's license from the wallet and stared at it, but didn't move to write anything down.

He finally moved over and checked his pocket contents, pushing some coins around and examining a single pill-shaped thing closely until he figured out that he was looking at a furry breath mint.

Trula had put her hands in her pockets and brought out the same sort of junk. She emptied her rear pockets first. Then she moved to her front pockets. She felt her little envelope and pulled it up between two fingers. As it came to the top of her pocket, she was able to tuck it completely behind her fingers. She casually moved her hand around to her back and slipped the little packet inside her waistband. She thanked the same stars for choosing clean full-sized panties today over a thong or something thin. The band of the panties caught the packet as she slid it down her backside. When she brought her hands back, they were empty.

"Pull em out." The woman pointed to both of their front pockets. Both Alex and Trula turned out their pockets as much as they could.

The male cop proceeded to pat Alex down, lifting his pant legs and pulling his socks out. He grunted, "Shoes off."

Alex kicked them off. Trula only had sandals on, so she stepped out of them too.

The woman walked around her. Trula wondered if a strip search was coming. But she lost interest in Trula's narrow pants and walked away. When the man stood up from frisking Alex, she waved him over to the other side of the room. They began talking in low voices.

Alex made eye-contact with Trula and smiled. He was pretty confident that this would work out. Both of them assumed that they were delivering a pile of illegal goods, so finding absolutely nothing was looking to be the boys' idea of a joke. They must have sniffed out the phony buyer set-up and decided to give the cops the finger with the suggestive supplements.

The cops came back over. They weren't happy.

The woman said, "So where do you pick up your goods. Who's the supplier? Give us that and you might still walk away tonight."

Alex couldn't resist. "Would that be our supplier for pizza, groceries or a nice pre-made meal?"

The big cop's arm came up so fast that neither Alex or Trula saw it until Alex was lifted into the air by the punch to his gut. The solar-plexus punch froze his ability to breath as he collapsed to the floor.

The cop laughed. "Oops, that was a little hard. Just meant to help you focus on the correct answer."

He ignored Alex's gasping on the floor.

Trula couldn't resist, she turned on him, taking a half step in his direction. "You fucking ape. That how you do your job? Maybe you want to take a swing at a girl too. Go ahead. What gets you hot. Punch in the tits. Maybe crush my nose. I'm waiting dumbfuck." She stared him down.

She was nearly screaming. "We don't know what the fuck you're talking about. If there was supposed to be dope in some delivery, we didn't know anything about it. So, unless you want to beat us both senseless on video, we're leaving."

Alex was breathing again, but clearly in a lot of pain. She helped him back to his feet.

The woman took charge. "You got lucky tonight, but have a feeling we'll be seeing you two soon. Get your stuff. Get the fuck out of here."

Back on the sidewalk, they limped away until they were around the next corner and out of sight of the house. Alex was starting to breath normally by that point. But he was still in pain.

"Do you want something to help with the pain." Trula knew he didn't use, but one Oxy would cut through the pain of his injured gut.

Alex spoke slowly. "No, nothing." Then he looked up at her. "You're not holding anyway."

She laughed, in spite of his obvious suffering. "Don't be too sure. If buddy had gone for my panties, he might have got a surprise. Two surprises actually, cuz I'm actually a man."

Alex couldn't help laughing, then groaning from the tensing of bruised muscles in his gut.

Trula was leading him. "You're coming to my place to recover. You might have a ruptured muscle or a broken rib. You may need to go in to emerge. Fucking asshole. We should complain."

Alex was recovering and starting to walk better. "Complain about what? Guarantee that there's no record of them being there, nor will the be any evidence of it come daylight."

They walked in silence for a while, then he spoke up again. "They probably weren't local cops anyway. Didn't see any ID or badges. That might have been horse narcs. Or DEA up here on a covert flyer. God knows. We got away, thanks to your panties. That picture all on its own makes me happy."

Leena was home when they got there. She looked up when Trula came in and then stood up when she saw that she was accompanied by a man with a noticeable tilt to one side and a limp. Her first thought was that she was bringing some needy addict home as punishment for Leena's declaration at lunch.

Trula brought Alex over to a side chair and helped him to sit down. She patted his head like an obedient puppy.

She smiled. "Hey Leena. This is Alex. Told you about him buying me a breakfast and getting me some work."

Alex looked up and smiled. He was clear-eyed and obviously in physical pain, but not stoned.

He said, "Hi Leena. Nice to meet you. Sorry, I'm a little bent here, just recovering from a punch that knocked my wind out. Trula can tell you whatever version of that story she wants. I'll be alright. Happy to be sitting, though."

Leena looked to Trula, who was getting a glass of water in the kitchen. She came back with a tablet and the water for Alex.

She talked to Alex. "Take this. Just a Tylenol-1. Harmless, but it will work fine on the pain."

He took both the pill and the water, then tried to sit back fully, slowly relaxing his defensive stomach clutch as he stretched out.

Leena was still waiting to hear what happened.

Trula had been considering how much to tell her. She figured that she would leave out the truth about what they should have been delivering; instead sticking with the actual herbal surprise.

She sat down. "I'm so pissed. I went along with Alex on deliveries for this herbal store and I guess we walked into some kind of mixed-up police stake-out. Got hauled into this bare room, and nearly strip-searched. When they found nothing but perfectly legal herbal supplements, they got pissed. Big cop punched Alex in the stomach. I still think that we should complain to somebody."

Leena sensed that she was getting the abridged version, if not also the sanitized version.

She asked, "So they were looking for drugs? And you guys weren't involved in that?"

It was kind of a, "How dumb do you think I am?" question.

Trula shook her head, but only a little.

She admitted, "Let's say that there was the possibility that there might have been some off-market medications involved, from some good guys we know, but there were none there. We weren't carrying anything. Well, almost nothing, I had my own pills in my pants."

The story was getting closer to the truth.

Alex finally spoke up again. "We can say that there could have been a problem, but guess the pharmacy knew something was wrong and didn't fall for it. We were lucky. Not that we knew that up front, mind you."

Leena figured that was as close to the truth as she would hear.

"So why did the guy punch you?"

Alex laughed and groaned. "That would be because of my big mouth."

He caught a shallow breath and added, "New rule: don't make fun of cops, no matter how ridiculous they are."

Alex came back to normal as the Tylenol kicked-in. He would have a tender gut, but it appeared that no other damage was done. Once he was feeling better, he was back to entertaining both women with street tales from the part of town he claimed as his backyard. He lived on his own in a upper flat on Bloor above a clothing store.

"Clothes don't party all night. I like it there."

He continued, "You guys have a great place here, too."

He waved his arm towards the ceiling and front window.

"Love the high-ceiling and plaster work. Probably great woodwork under seventeen layers of paint. Guess you've never thought about rehabbing it, eh? I love peeling paint off. Best heat-gun in the west. Of Yonge that is."

Leena looked at Trula and then over to Alex. She admitted, "We're actually leaving at the end of next month. Just a month-to-month rental and it's time, I guess, to move on."

Alex repeated the look back and forth between the women.

"Oh, too bad. Probably get flipped. Then it will get reno'd. These places sell for millions now. Hard to believe that you couldn't give them away a couple decades back. People used to moan about heating costs and maintenance. Now location is all that matters. Walking to the subway is primo."

The women hadn't said anything about splitting up and Alex didn't ask. He was a great judge of people and he could sense a conflicted chemistry between them. Leena cared a lot, but living with drug dependence was a tough row. If they were splitting, Trula didn't seem too put out by it. He filed the question for another day, if he stayed connected to Trula.

Leena wondered what Trula's plan for the night was. Three was a crowd, maybe. Or maybe she didn't want to go down that road and expected Leena to stay out with them to keep everything just-social. There wasn't much snack-type food around, but she had some juice opened and there was an eclectic collection of soda flavours in the back of the fridge.

She asked, "Alex, would you like something else to drink. Juice or a coke or similar. Bar's a little thin here; actually, it's empty, so just pop."

Alex smiled and nodded. "Yeah, a coke or anything would be great."

Trula jumped up. "Let me get it."

Leena took the opportunity to walk into the kitchen with her. She looked over to Trula and raised her eyebrows.

Under her breath, she said, "Nice guy."

After a pause she added, "Stayin over?"

With her hand she motioned that she would head into her room if Trula wanted the couch all to herself.

Trula grinned and shrugged. She was grinning as she started back to the living room with a coke split between two glasses.

"Let's check on the Jays. Last time Yankees are in town, if I heard right at Tim's. Course that guy also thought that the Angels were playing the Astros on the back side of the moon."

Turning on the TV meant that nothing hot and heavy was immediately on tap. Leena liked baseball. Trula's hint was to stay put, for a while at least.

It was a blow-out for the wrong guys, so after a few groaning mound visits and changes of pitcher, they gave up on the game. You could only watch so many dingers heading several meters over the centre-fielder's exasperated outreach. Leena figured she'd get out of there anyway.

She got up and said, "Well, I have to work early tomorrow. Alex, nice to meet you. Hope that you're going to be OK. Not an expert, but they say to watch everything—you know, bruising, pee, breathing, new pains and things for a couple days after blunt abdominal trauma. Be wise to go in for some pictures."

Her assessment sounded awfully clinical to the other two. They both tipped their head in curiosity.

Leena grinned, realizing that she was mothering. "Sorry, I read a lot. If you ever get a concussion, I can interpret brain scans as well."

Now Both Trula and Alex laughed. He groaned for it.

Trula said, "I agree with her. Punch like that, from a big ape, could certainly do some damage. Maybe we should go down to TGH right now?"

Alex smiled and put his hands up. "Not needed. Not the first time I've been punched. I'll see how I am in the morning. If there's anything out of whack, I'll go in first thing tomorrow."

Trula put a hand on his shoulder. "Well, then you're staying here tonight. Being alone, never know, you could go into shock or something. Find you stiff in a week, when they bust down your door. Plus, we need you healthy and happy on Friday."

"What's on Friday?"

It was a slip, partly from imagining the happy setting that Trula wished she could repeat again at midnight on Friday. It would be amazing to have both Leena and Alex here when her numbers came up.

She laughed, covering up, "Oh, nothing special, just the week-end y'know."

Leena was still back on the part of the conversation where Alex was staying the night. Trula interested in having a man in her bed was another throwback to happier times. Some of them anyway. More than once, Leena had to order out some creepy guy who showed up in his underwear in the kitchen in the morning. But Alex had better manners than that. He was a nice guy. Could he be Trula's hero?

Alone, without the TV, the two of them could talk more openly about what happened earlier.

Trula asked, "Think the boys are screwed? Cops seemed mighty close to busting in on their operation. If we were wimps, we might have spilled the beans. 'Nough users out there who know about them. Probably just a matter of time."

Alex whispered back. "Yeah, things will have to change. I'll call them from a payphone in the morning. We have a code system. I'll tell them to bug out for now."

Trula agreed but wasn't happy that her main source of safe meds would be gone. Her one experience with street shit told her that not knowing your source was dangerous.

Alex may have been thinking ahead for her.

"You fixed for a while?"

She grimaced. "Cutting back, hope to be off in a few days, maybe a week or two most, but right now still need a tablet or two each day. Just got a couple right now, so it's a problem, yeah."

Alex nodded, "Boys will worry about cutting off their regulars too."

He thought about it a little. "They're not stupid. They probably have a plan for when it gets too hot. Don't worry for now, we'll fix it tomorrow."

They were sitting very close together. Somewhere during the evening, they had dropped their personal space need to zero with each other. Now they were pressing hips together and Trula had her hand resting on his damaged torso. They stopped talking.

Alex reached up and turned her head towards him. He was very close and looking directly into her eyes.

"You were very brave with the big cop. I couldn't breath, but I could still hear. You were ready to go toe-to-toe with him to save me."

She grinned, "Well, I actually invited him to punch me in the tits, if you recall. Most guys won't do that even if offered the chance. I was playing the odds. The broad could have come around and flattened me with no regrets; she looked like a nasty piece of work. We were lucky they lost interest."

Alex smiled. "Your tits seem to be a topic of conversation tonight. Sorry about that. Guess I sort of owe them an apology."

She smiled and took his hand. "Yeah, you do and you should make it up to them as well. Plus, don't forget my panties. They jumped in to help as well."

She put his hand on her breast and leaned in to kiss him. He responded by opening his lips and pressing her back to the couch with obvious pent-up energy. She pulled him in and rolled them over. He yelped in pain through the kiss, without breaking it off.

Trula took his face in her hands and pushed him back an inch.

"This is way too cramped for a man in your condition. I think that we should put you right to bed, where you will be much more comfortable. And where I won't crush your poor ribs or belly."

She got up and helped him to his feet. She led him into her bedroom. For some strange reason she had stripped the sheets this morning and made up a perfect fresh bed. Her mother's advice echoed in her head. "Always change your sheets on date night."

She puzzled over why she had done it this morning though, when she hadn't the slightest idea that Alex might stay over. Or had she? Was she on a repeat again? It was all too confusing.

She did remember that she still had a package of pills in her panties and laughed. They could play find the hidden prize. Or maybe not. She'd get them out of there right up front. No sense testing what might gross-out your man until many weeks down the road.

Chapter 7 – Rudy Tuesday

Alex didn't pass in the night. Trula kept a hand on his chest or on his back when he rolled and groaned during restless dozing. She wished that she could feel the even breathing of more restful sleep, but there wasn't much of that. But he never stopped altogether.

He got up to piss around three and she got up too, to offer him another Tylenol. As he hadn't planned on turning on the light in the shared bathroom, he just slipped into his boxers. Trula showing up to offer medicine required the vanity light to find the right bottle and some water. She had thrown on a robe, but had lost the belt somewhere in her closet, so in freeing hands to get the pills, she gave him a first lighted look at her frontal parts. She considered being embarrassed until he pulled himself inside the open robe and kissed her. She could feel that the encounter would get more interesting quickly.

She said, "Think we should probably go back into the bedroom."

He was enjoying the freedom of exploration the standing position offered.

"Standing up, my stomach doesn't hurt at all anymore. Or at least, I'm not noticing it at all, anymore. Maybe we should stay right here."

Her hand found the waistband of his boxers and went exploring.

"I see, er, I feel your interest in continuing. But Leena is a light sleeper and a frequent pee'er. We will almost certainly wake her up if you moan as much as you did the first time."

He leaned back to look into her eyes. "Seems to me that it was a duet. Do you think that she heard us?"

Trula grinned. "Happen to know that she keeps a set of earbuds available to cover noise problems with a little late-night Spotify."

He frowned, "So this happens a lot then?"

Trula tipped her head. "I was thinking barking dogs and cats in heat out back. What are you implying, sir?"

"Oh, nothing at all. Anyway, I'm sure that you keep things very quiet with anybody but me. Bored and sleepy, isn't noisy."

Trula found the sore spot on his torso with her other hand and poked him. He yelped.

She said, "Oh, now who's the noisy one?"

After a long kiss, she reached over and killed the light. She led him back to her room.

In the morning, Leena was gone before they crawled out. Alex begged-off breakfast, saying he had to get on the problem of letting the boys know what was up. He told Trula to hang in until ten or so and he'd call the house phone, with an update.

He said, "I'll see what they plan to do about dispensing. Maybe they won't be too concerned, but may want to pack up and clear the place out for a few weeks. I'll make sure we can be looked after."

He meant her. The "we" part hung in the air for her. Was it we?

He was gone. If he was still hurting from last night's beating, he hadn't shown it this morning. He seemed very happy to wake up beside her. They had both been horny, adventurous and uninhibited in loving; it was better than Trula found with other guys in many weeks of dating. This was out of the blue. No preliminaries or hesitation. It was almost too good to be true. That's exactly what she now thought. Any guy that is that good a lover must get lots of practice and probably likes lots of variety. She hoped that she hadn't blown it by being too easy. She hoped that she wasn't just one more quick conquest. But she tossed the worry aside. What will be, will be.

Her body now had a whole bunch of new painful parts requiring some attention. A soak in the tub sounded very good, maybe to also check on the leg and crotch fur situation, just in case Alex was less horny and more astute later. Plus, she could think of no better way to start the day than dropping a pill and having a long hot soak.

She snuck a piece of Leena's bread to make toast with a coffee from the designated communal jar of instant. She had stacked some little jams packs pinched from Frans on the counter for Leena to use if she wanted, but Leena rarely ate anything in the morning, so she still had the pick of the litter. Strawberry jam seemed appropriate for some reason. Peanut butter was her misery food. She put it on the bottom of the stack. She hummed a happy tune as she headed into the bedroom with her cup and the sliced toast. Anticipation was her favourite distraction. For the first time in several days, she forgot about Friday.

Alex's call came around ten-thirty on the clock or about five hundred thousand kilometres later by Trula's perception. He was out of breath from running down to the payphone at the 7-Eleven.

He puffed out, "Hey beautiful, how's your morning going?"

Trula wasn't used to the compliments that he gave so easily, probably without even thinking about it. No wonder women blushed around him.

"Just fine, except for my lady bits, which are feeling a little abused right now. Gentle is the watch-word for today."

He laughed, "Oh-oh. My bad, I guess. Funny, my bits feel just fine, except the bruised mid-section, that is. Does this mean that you'll have trouble working?"

"Working? At what?"

"Bob wants help with a house packing job in mid-town. Filling a freight trailer to go out west somewhere. That's tomorrow; today everything has to be dismantled or de-shelved and packed. His guys are fumble-fingered with this kinda stuff."

Trula shook her head—things had a weird way of working out when you didn't try too hard.

Alex continued, "Don't get too big a head—he called for me, but I told him I'm busy over at the herb store today. He assumed that you worked somewhere else during the week, so maybe he would have called you first. Guessing he'd rather look at you than at me any day."

She let it go. "When's this work?"

"Soon as you can get there. It's in mid-town, couple blocks off Yonge. I'll give you the address. Rudy is already there, dismantling furniture. Bob says this is a walk-away move. Owners are already out west."

She still needed cash to eat. "OK, I guess. I'll head up. You said you're at the back-door?"

Any change of operations there was a concern.

"Yeah, back to the herbs-only business here, I'm guessin. Potions and incantations moving to a new spot. More to come on that when I see you later."

He paused. She was processing so didn't say anything right away.

He expressed a rare moment of doubt. "That's OK, isn't it? Seeing you later?"

Trula grinned. She had a boyfriend. Weird, unlikely, possibly fucked-up, and amazing all applied in that moment.

"Of-course it's alright. If you want to. Guess I'm used to call you next week, maybe, kind of commitments. You sure?"

Alex laughed as well. "Baby, we've pretty much broken every rule already. I'm absolutely sure."

Trula felt the L word falling down off the shelf in her head. Was it? That quick? Couldn't be.

She said, "Then I'm sure too. I'll leave you a message when I'm done with the crew. We can meet somewhere. Think maybe we should eat before we hop in the sack tonight."

He laughed, "Great idea. I'll come to you and we can get something on the strip."

She was tempted to say it, but adapted and said, "Love to. See you then."

She knew how close she was to feeling it. She shook it off. Physical only for this week. Later she might open another door.

"So, ya speak Romanian or somethin close, huh?"

Bob himself came to the door in the sparkling three-story townhouse to let her in. She was a little stunned by the multi-million-dollar layout. It was one unit of a six-unit in-fill development in a nice older neighbourhood. The builder had obviously spared nothing on luxury finishings.

She blinked at him. "Huh. Sorry, this place is kind of dazzling for a street-kid. What? Romanian? Uh, no."

Bob wrinkled his brow. "Oh. Thought that ya had a conversation with Rudy the other day. Were you two just pretendin to understand each other?"

Trula laughed. "Yeah, pretty much. He speaks some French. I do too, a little. That, plus a lot of pointing and handwaving got the idea across. He understands a lot of English too."

Bob shook his head. "Well fuck, if I'd known that I woulda started yelling at him in French then. Let's see what I know? Poutine, parmesan and Trudeau."

Trula guessed he was playing her again. She responded, "Think parmesan is Italian."

Bob grinned, "Shit, I'm multilingual. Who woulda guessed?"

He was walking away as he talked. She got the idea that she was to follow. A lot of the furniture had been moved out from the walls to make some working room on the open-concept main level. Several of the soft couches were already wrapped completely in clear plastic. A large cylinder of plastic wrap was standing against a wall.

Bob headed up the central stairs where they came upon Rudy, who was in the process of disassembling a complicated desk unit in a smaller room that must have been used as an office. When he saw Trula, he stood-up and grinned. He put down his tools and wiped his hands on his pants. She raised her eyebrows in greeting and went over to shake.

She said, "Bonjour, Rudy. Comment ca va?"

He responded, "Ca va bien, Mademoiselle Trula. Tu es bon?"

She nodded and grinned.

Bob put his hand up. "OK, enough of that, you two. Next, you'll be talking about my droopy ass or somethin and I won't know it. He already knows what he's doin. Let me tell you what else I need."

He led her up another floor to a central hallway with three double doorways each leading to a bedroom suite. He walked through one and into an ensuite bathroom.

He pointed to the built-in cupboards. "You can start high and work your way down. Everything that isn't permanently screwed-in gets packed. Empty all the drawers and any furniture pieces. Tape-up any cords. Lampshades off and packed separately. If somethin will fit in a box, pack it. Otherwise, we'll bring the plastic wrap up and secure it that way."

Trula looked over the loose items in the bathroom. Someone could have used the place ten minutes ago. The counter was covered in stuff, there were shelves filled with bottles and there were brushes and private products in the drawers. She guessed that Bob was pretty happy to have a woman on the crew so he wouldn't have some guy holding up tampons or a dildo and asking what to do with it.

She surveyed the room. "Liquids?"

Bob shrugged. "Liquid, tubes and squeezy things—garbage em. Shit leaks no matter how well packed. Two hundred bucks a jar creams and crap in solid containers—put em in a sealed-up baggie and wrap in a separate box labelled fragile.

Trula laughed. "You're assuming I know the difference?"

Bob touched her shoulder with his finger. It was a perfectly polite, but a little fatherly as well. He dropped his voice level to indicate a confidence.

"I assume that you know a lot, my dear. You can't fool me with the down-and-out act. You can step up and rule the world whenever you want."

He grinned and continued, back at full volume, "That's why you're in charge. Bonus again, of course. Keep Rudy organized—he knows his stuff but can wander a bit. Rest of the crew are coming after they finish another job downtown. When they get here, pick the one you want for packing boxes and point the other one at breaking down the furniture. Supplies are in the garage."

She was standing with her mouth open after he turned and started walking away.

She sputtered, "That's it? How the fuck do I know what to do?"

He was still moving, but called back. "Jus tol ya that. You still deaf?"

She walked out into the central hall and talked down to his disappearing form rounding the stairs.

Trula shouted, "You're leaving?"

Bob laughed and shouted back. "I was never here. You dreamed me. Got to go get us all paid now."

She heard the front door open and close. Once again, fucking Bob had done it to her. He was either completely crazy or the best boss in the world.

The door opened and he stuck his head back in.

He shouted up. "Oh, forgot. All of the food is getting dumped. Don't pack any of it to move, but eat all you want. Or take it home. Don't get sick on it. Cleaners will trash the rest."

He was gone again.

Trula shook her head. All the food you want, sounded pretty interesting. She headed back down to check that out and to get some supplies for packing the upper level.

The fridge was mostly emptied of fresh food, but had lots of interesting condiments. The cupboards were stocked to the hilt with pastas, fancy label sauces and spices. There was an entire pantry full of unopened cereals, crackers, canned stuff, and baking supplies. There were two shelves dedicated to pet foods and supplements—one for cats and one for dogs. Most of the unopened stuff wasn't anything that she could use, but she knew a woman's shelter that could probably take the lot. It was a place she thought about needing to go to, just a couple unemployed days ago.

Once the guys got here, she'd check if that was cool and make a call. They could box it all up and set it out for pick-up. First though, she'd pack a gift box for Leena. She'd been eating her stuff for many months. The least she could do was to return the favour with two cubic feet of specialty shop stuff that they would relish but never buy on their own. Or maybe they would, after Friday. This could be a sampler.

She needed boxes. The enclosed garage had been stocked with many ten-packs of flat boxes ready to be taped-up for use. She had been through a couple moves with her parents, where they did all the packing themselves. She had a goofy thought that she should call her mother to tell her how whacky this was. It would drive her nuts. Walk out with your cap-off toothpaste still laying on the sink and expect to walk into the new place with it pre-squeezed for you on the new sink as if nothing happened. Geez, what money gets you! Calling her mother was a random thought that came out of nowhere. It had been months since she'd done that.

She remembered the packing rules. Big boxes for light stuff. Small boxes for heavy. There were stacks of packing paper, pre-cut to squares. She could see the routine. Lay item on stack, wrap quick, jam in box, repeat. She knew that boxes had to be packed not to jiggle and that fragile things needed crush space around them. She spied a roll of bubble wrap. All good.

A supplies kit had several tape dispensers, tough baggies, extra tape, a couple Exacto knifes and some Sharpies. She made up a small box for her supplies and grabbed one of each tool, plus the bubble wrap roll. Her next trip would be for boxes. She imagined that some packing jobs could be deadly boring. This one wouldn't be though, because she was going to get a very private look into some rich bitch's life, one extravagant item at a time.

Once she was set to go, she routed back to see how Rudy was doing. He had knocked the desk unit down to manageable parts and tie-wrapped the metal parts together. The finished surfaces would either be pre-wrapped in blankets or packed tightly with blankets in the truck.

Rudy was considering his next challenge when she came up the stairs.

She thought she would try English first as her French would pretty much end at the point where they were both doing fine and it wasn't raining outside. If he could only respond in French, she'd have to figure it out.

"Rudy, you are quick." She pointed to the disassembled desk all packed up and gave him a thumbs-up.

He replied, "Sure, quick for Bob. Other boss, drag yer ass, y'know?"

She laughed with him. So, they all liked Bob. She wondered what he was like when things completely screwed-up as they always must, once in a while. Nice guys sometimes turned to shits when they wanted to blame others for their poor decisions or indecisive leadership. She guessed that when your guys could just walk away or not show up when you call, a different style might be needed. Being fair and sharing the wealth was a good start to creating loyalty. Why most bosses didn't get it was beyond her.

She motioned for Rudy to follow her upstairs to walk through the bedrooms. When they got there, it was obvious what the problem was. Each room had a complete bedroom set, with at least a queen mattress. The true master had one of those split kings where each side goes up and down on its own. The bedrooms also had dressers with mirrors. Trula pulled out a drawer, and, as expected, found it jammed with clothing. There was still bedding on all the beds. They really had just walked out the door.

As Rudy watched, she went over to the big bed and started pulling all the bedding off onto the floor. After a minute of tugging and dragging, it was down to the mattresses. She motioned to him to grab a side as they tipped each mattress off of the frame below. They stood these against an open piece of wall, being careful not to knock any pictures off. When that was done, Leena pointed to the bed.

She said, "Need to take it apart."

Rudy looked at the bed and then bent down to look at the mechanism below. He was too polite to swear in front of her, but she distinctly heard, "Schiesse" under the bed. So, he did speak German.

When he stood up, Trula took his arm and led him to the other bedrooms. She pointed at each bed and raised two and then three fingers.

She said, "All three."

His next job, as assigned by her, was to knock them all down. He nodded. She could get on with her work. This was cool.

Pretty quickly, she had the bathroom figured out. She triaged the stuff to easy pack, to fragile pack and to dispose. The throwaway stuff went directly into the bathtub. Towels and soft stuff went in a pile in the hall. Easy-pack stuff got wrapped if needed and got its own boxes. Expensive, fragile and creamy got bagging, then full-wrapping and bubble wrap cushioning in smaller boxes.

In about half-an-hour she was done bathroom number one. She hadn't counted bathrooms, but there were three upstairs, at least one of each of the main levels and probably one in the basement. Six baths, three tubs, including a giant spa, three showers and a toilet for every ass. She grinned as she thought about their one and only porcelain antique at the flat: she briefly considered taking a piss in the silky toilet and trying out the bidet in the master. She got a little flushed thinking about how that might feel.

She was halfway through her third bathroom when Richard and Rakesh arrived. They shared greetings and kibitzed about being on two jobs together in one week. They seemed genuinely pleased to see her, just as Rudy was.

She asked if they had any problem, or if they thought Bob would, with her giveaway idea to the shelter. Both of them thought it was a great idea. She suggested that they each get a small box and grab anything they personally wanted, then Rakesh could pack up the rest to put outside. He was pleased to be given responsibility for this important task.

She borrowed a phone, called 3-1-1 to get the number of the shelter, then called there and let them know that there were boxes for pick-up coming for late afternoon. An employee said she would come around.

On a whim, she grabbed a couple of flat boxes and went back upstairs to collect the barely-used shampoos, conditioners and washes from the bathtubs. They might just toss them, but another woman might like a shower with some forty-dollar shampoo or conditioner. She wished that she had been told to toss some of the clothing as she was certain that some of the obvious glitter in the closets would look great down on the Jarvis stroll.

Larvie was assigned all the hanging artwork and pictures. By Trula's walk-around count it was many dozens of pieces. The largest would be wrapped and blanketed. The smallest could be carefully packed in normal crate boxes. In the middle, the pieces required accordion-style mirror box packing. There were dozens of these in the garage and all would get used.

When they were alone on a walk through to lift down the heaviest pictures, Larvie, or Richard just to her, asked if she was OK.

She replied, "Today, I'm good, at least for now. You're great to ask. I almost had a crisis yesterday and wished that I had your number."

She quickly related walking straight into the police bust but getting off with nothing illegal found, only by good luck. She told him how she slipped six Oxys into her underwear.

Richard laughed, but then turned very serious. "So, you don't have a prescription?"

Trula shrugged, "Nope; cut-off for cheating. Last doc was an asshole—they must flag your file. Gave up trying at the walk-in clinics after a while."

Richard grinned, "I can fix that. My doc doesn't take some high moral ground. She'll give you proper shit if you're abusing, but she'll never send someone to the street. I'll get you in. Wish it was covered too, but at least you can just pay normal price and not worry about getting busted."

Trula grinned. Another magic turn of her luck. The back door source gets shuttered just as she finds a way back onto a legitimate prescription. A caring doctor might also be able to start her on a non-opioid path to kicking the Oxy. This was one strange connected set of events. She briefly wondered again if she had stepped out of the old reality and not realized it. But that usually only happened under huge stress and she was just cruising along now.

They were all moving quickly with each person now self-assigning based on their skills. It was late afternoon and the job looked like it would take at least three or four more hours. The thought of food crossed her mind, but nothing on a shelf or in a can in the kitchen appealed to her. She wondered if the other guys wanted to order something and if it fell within her "supervisor's" authority to just order on Bob's behalf. He definitely wouldn't want them to just drop what they were doing to go eat, but the rest of them had been working all day. Subs maybe. Anything they wanted could come right to the door.

She was also starting to hurt. The numbing effect of her morning time-release tablet was wearing off as the last of the drug worked its way through her system. She had another tablet carefully wrapped in her pocket. Maybe it was time to take it?

She was still considering what to do when Rakesh walked up to her with his cellphone out. The guys each carried one. If she was going to work for Bob, she needed one too.

He said, "Miss Trula, excuse me. Mr. Bob is on my phone. He will probably tell you to get an unpleasant cell phone as well. He is quite concerned about this. Perhaps you will speak with him?"

She guessed unpleasant meant "fucking" and that Bob had expected Rakesh to yell at her on his behalf. He might have picked one of the others who, if they restrained themselves around her, at least knew the appropriate words to pass on. She smiled and took the phone.

"I'm sorry about that, Rakesh. Yes, I agree that our boss is very much like a giant pile of elephant dung. He also splats from high places."

She said it close enough to the phone that she was certain Bob heard every word. Rakesh's eyes grew wide and he waved his hands in disbelief that she would attribute the crude description of Bob to him. She kept grinning and waved him off.

She spoke directly into the phone. "Oh, he's not on hold? Oh my. Hello, Bob."

"Very funny Samantha. You need a fashionable phone. Isn't that exactly what I said?"

He was in the noisy truck and talking to someone else. She could hear a barely audible response from someone across the seat, saying that she'll have one tomorrow. She couldn't make out the voice. Might be Varun, as he was the only one not here, but why would be getting her a phone?

Bob came back to her, "We're on the way in with a couple pizzas and a box of beer. Veggie option for Rakesh, the proper fellow with the sensitive ears whose vocabulary I am determined to expand. Drop something on his foot to see if he's getting any of it. How's it going?"

Trula had to listen carefully over the cabin noise as he tended to run one idea right into the next. She realized that he was looking for a status report.

"All good—small packing is mostly done. More hands are on breakdowns and wrapping now. Still got a couple rooms to attack, but three hours will do it, particularly with you here pitching in."

Bob laughed. "Yer unlikely to want my fat ass in yer way, darling. I'll pitch in t'lift shit, but packin and prep ain't my thing. 'Cides, I'm bringin an expert on showing-up after the hard work is done, lifting a chair or two and expecting full credit."

There was more back and forth in the noisy truck, suggesting that Bob was now engaged on a second verbal insult front.

"See ya in ten." The connection disappeared. Trula shook her head and headed over to give the phone back to Rakesh in one of the many huge closets. He was carefully hanging clothes in wardrobe crates. She thought about doing that work but decided that the clothes would probably make her sick with envy, so she was handling drawers. They were bad enough, as each sweater probably cost more than she had ever made in week of work.

Trula could tell that Bob had come in by the sudden upheaval downstairs as each person got their share of insults and harassment. She was part way through a crate so kept on going. She still wasn't sure if she was fully accepted as a bona fide member of the crew. Drifting in quietly after the hubbub faded was more her style.

She was bent over the grate when a pair of arms came around her body, with one hand landing on her stomach and the other right on a boob. A pelvis pressed in firmly behind her ass as the arms pulled her upright. The bastard was nibbling her bare skin and actually trying to lay a wet kiss on the side of her neck.

Her first thought was, "Please no, Bob. Don't let this be true."

She spun ready to challenge whoever was grabbing her and came face-to-face with Alex. She was still in shock and must have stared, blinking in surprise. Now he did kiss her, with a long tongue-engaged lip-lock that kept her from responding.

She protested through the embrace.

'You shit. Good thing I didn't have a knife in my hand, you'd be shredded. I thought that I was joining the Me-Too movement right on the spot."

Alex had leaned back and was now grinning. "Sorry, just couldn't help myself with your wonderful butt up in the air like that."

She felt the adrenaline hit from the groping working its way through her system. Now she was flush with both embarrassment and tingly excitement. Alex just showing up was a wonderful surprise. She was suddenly torn between her commitment to aceing another job assignment and wanting to just take off right now with Alex.

She finally asked, "What are you doing here?"

Alex shrugged, "Bob called to see if I could help pack the trailer tomorrow. Somebody else can't make it. He sort-of also asked if I could ask you if you wanted to help. Not sure why, maybe he's just old school or maybe not too sure if you're OK with working for him? I said I could and I hoped that you could, but you would need to be asked directly. It's just a couple hours, I think. Lotta stuff, but goes quick."

Trula got it, if Alex didn't. Bob assumed that they were a couple. So, of course Alex would know if she was available. He might also know if she wanted to work. He might make the decision for her. One person, the boss, in some couples made all the decisions. Pretty soon they weren't a couple anymore. Unless, they were married, and her parents, where her mother never actually asked her father if he was OK with anything. She just made all decisions for him.

"Thirty years of Hell," was how her father quietly described their marriage out of her mother's earshot at their anniversary. Mother also decided that they wouldn't get divorced, apparently. She pulled the same stunt with her children's lives until both exercised their freedom to bail-out and live somewhere else as soon as they could.

Why was she thinking about her mother today?

She responded to Alex, "Thanks for pointing that out to him. Bob makes up for being an old fart by being so lovable. Think maybe he's just embarrassed a bit, dealing with a woman all of a sudden. Plus, not like he can call actually me."

Alex grinned. "We can fix that. Know a guy. He does phones. Assume that they're stolen, but wiped and recarded. Get you a nice one for $40. If you're OK with me setting it up, I can also get you a free phone number and data. Some companies don't pay attention to their corporate cell plans—they get hacked. Can set one up like mine with no GPS. Stops working, you just toss it away and get another one."

She said, "Sure." Another problem just floating away today.

"You still haven't said why you're actually here." She was being super-cautious with any assumptions as well.

Alex grinned again. "Thought that we had a date?"

He paused to check her expression. "I mean, when you dismiss the crew for tonight, after the work is all done to your high standards."

She lost her smile and frowned. Was he just being funny or was this a veiled shot for being uppity in her, mostly unearned, lead-hand role?

"Is this a problem? Me being asked, repeat, asked, to take charge?"

Alex put on a serious face as well. "Guess not, 'cept used to be me doing that. Now I'll probably be let go or demoted to just grunt again"

She bought his line. "What? No fucking way. You can have your job back right now. I'm just doing what Bob tells me. I didn't know it put you out. Jesus Christ, thought this was too-good to be true."

Alex had put his head down on her chest as if very upset. She put her arms around him.

He came up grinning and kissed her. "Think I could get over it with a little extra attention, later. Or, maybe right now? Lots of very private bathrooms in this place. Maybe we could pick up where we left off last night?"

She pushed him away. "Jesus, just another excuse to grab my ass. You had me going. So, you actually came in to get a bent-over quickie then?"

Alex raised eyebrows expectantly. He hadn't, but the imagined possibility was now taking shape in his head.

She pretended to be indignant. "Well, if I knew that was a job-requirement, I'd have asked for more money."

For a shared moment or two, they both considered if they could get away with it.

From far below, Bob's voice came up the stairs.

"Hey you two, no nasty stuff on the customer's fine furniture. Come on down and get some pizza afore it gets cold. These assholes will drink your beer if you don't hurry up."

They laughed, shrugged and descended the stairs together. Trula hadn't been down in a couple hours and was amazed to see the place almost entirely packed or wrapped, ready for the morning loading. A couple extra hands upstairs and they might be done in an hour.

Bob was holding court in the kitchen. A twelve-pack of Moosehead was on the floor with a couple empties already back in. Everyone but Rakesh was holding a beer. He had a ginger ale, obviously cold and brought along with the beer. Bob got it. As they grabbed pizza and a beer each, he opened up on how well the job had gone.

"Thought that this place might be a problem t'get broken down in one day. But this is an amazing job, y'all."

He looked around with a final nod to Trula. It was an acknowledgment of good work.

He continued, "At least they took the fucking poodles with them. One might have been a cat. Hard to tell. Last time here damn things attacked me. Did anybody check the backyard? Nothing there, don't think, but mighta left a barbeque."

Larvie had it. "Built in. Grabbed and packed all the loose shit. No patio set. Bar-b didn't look like it was even used. Don't think these guys burned their own meat much."

Bob laughed. "Yeah, well, the rest of us still like a juicy burger home-charred once in a while. Oh, guess not you, eh Rakesh? Sorry. I'll keep my disgusting carnivorous remarks to myself."

He continued, "Basement clear?"

Rakesh had this one. "It contains only boxes from their previous move. I applied marking for basement storage at the destination. This indication assumes that they will have a basement, which cannot be known, I suppose."

Bob nodded, "Yes, would have done it."

He now nodded to Trula. "Would you be able to join us tomorrow then, Katarina? I'm finding that this entire crew seems to work a lot better with a woman in the house. I don't know any of their mothers, but I suspect that each has some sort of weird hang-up that your presence allows them to fantasize about."

Trula shook her head. Any woman but her would be looking up some sort of complaint bureau by now.

She replied, "All gentlemen, in every regard, boss. Well, except this one." She nodded to Alex who had his backside against the eight-burned range and was seeing if he could turn on a gas burner with swipes of his ass. The igniter was madly clicking, but no luck yet.

He caught that he was a topic of the conversation. "Who me? Never touch the stuff. What was the question again?"

Trula had him. "Wasn't the stuff I noticed you touching. I'm doing an underwear count when I go back up. Frilly red stuff might be a little sticky now."

The guys all laughed. Even Rakesh couldn't help joining in. Alex just grinned. He was second to none in scorching puns and put-downs, but had no answer for her. She was a quick as he was.

Trula's pain was now creeping down her back and into her hips and legs. She knew that she would get stiffer and more distracted if she didn't do something about it, but she resisted the idea of being Oxy-stoned around the guys and with Alex in particular. A couple of Richard's lighter Percs would do the trick, but she could hardly go begging to him with Alex now here. He worked in the illicit drugs business by default through his relationship with the back-door pharmacy, but somehow, he somehow steered clear of the drugs himself. Or, more likely, he had once been hooked, but had fought his way back to clear and was just better at staying that way than most.

She finished a pizza slice and thirstily drained a beer, but as always happened, her focus was starting to shift more and more to finding some relief for her pain. She had a tablet with her. If she couldn't connect to something through Richard, she'd have to take it.

The break wasn't long. Bob jumped in with the downstairs crew to make sure that all the big stuff was ready to go. Trula touched Richard's arm and asked if he could help her and Alex upstairs. Rakesh had already gone back to clearing out the final hanging clothes into wardrobes.

Trula figured she might as well be up-front with Alex. He knew she had a habit. He was looking out for her. He'd just have to understand if she was a little stoned. Having her doubled over in pain would be a lot worse for both of them. Sometimes, she wasn't very nice when she was completely unmedicated. Whatever adrenaline the job had offered to top up her energy, it was now gone.

Richard, to his credit had already figured out that she was hurting. When Alex went back downstairs to retrieve a couple more boxes, he came over to her.

'You look like you're hurting. Want a couple tabs?"

She smiled at him. "That obvious, eh? I'm actually flush, but trying to avoid a big pill this late in the day. It will knock me out. But, not very comfortable right now. Guess, my plan to cut back isn't working that well."

He already got out a little metal case and was tapping out a couple pills. He gently placed them in her hand, with just the slightest hesitation in breaking his fingertip touch on her hand afterward.

Trula could feel relief already spreading as she put the pills in her mouth. She tucked them under her tongue. In a minute, she'd spread out the soft paste with her tongue and leave it in her mouth to get it into her system as quickly as possible. There was an alternative, if you were really dying in pain, but crushing and snorting pills was such a head rush that there was no way she would be able to keep working. Plus, she hated doing it. Even though she was very needy now, she knew that there was a much deeper hole that she could fall into.

Trula was immensely grateful to Richard. She wasn't sure that it was appropriate, but on impulse, she reached out to hug him. It gave her a chance to whisper thanks and maybe to provide something he needed, if she was reading him correctly. He might have wished for more from her, but it was all she could do now that Alex was in her life. She owed as much as she could give, without hurting him.

Not too long ago, she might well have slept with him in return for the meds, if that was what he wanted. But those relationships were never good for anything except raw relief of the moment. With enough drugs, she felt nothing and didn't care. Mostly, the guys were just relieving some fantasy lust and also faded away quickly. Deal, fuck, leave. It was a familiar pattern for both participants. In Richard, she hoped that maybe she was finding a friend who would know that too.

He seemed to get it. He smiled and put a friend's arm around her shoulders.

"Alex is one of my best buds. I'm really happy that you two have connected—maybe you can think the same about me."

Trula grinned and turned to him. "I'd really like that."

She wished once-again that she could just spill the beans about Friday night; how they'd all be rolling in cash; how she'd pay him back in thousands for each little help he gave her now; how they'd all party like fools in some unbelievably exotic place for a long as they wanted and nobody would ever have to worry about money again. But she couldn't say anything. For now, being friends meant shutting up.

Alex was coming back up the stairs.

Trula knew that she was standing closer to Richard than needed. He had dropped his arm when she turned to talk to him. Their relationship was now or never. If she separated herself, he would understand that she didn't welcome him inside her defenses. He'd quietly walk away to leave just her and Alex as intimates.

She needed friends. She could risk it. She put her arm around Richard's shoulder and pulled him close. His arm came up to her back. They both grinned at Alex.

"You two look like the cats that swallowed the cream." Alex looked around. "Why are we so happy to be Bob's sweat slaves tonight?"

Trula laughed and Richard might have pulled away, but she hung on to him.

"Richard, or is it Larvie to you, helped me deal with a nasty ache that was about to take me out. His prescription tabs are better for me than my not-prescription tab. Feeling better soon."

Alex nodded. A junkie's relief was like being pulled out of the path of a streetcar. It was instant and all-encompassing. She wanted to share the feeling. He had been there once.

"Oh." He paused and looked back and forth. "Get that."

He came over and joined the hug. It was light and encouraging, a little like the huddle in football.

Alex might have pushed himself between them. He might have been jealous. Instead he was happy for his woman and happy for his friend. Maybe as a team, they could figure out how to help her fix this for good.

Richard broke off first. He was happy too. He could catch Trula if she fell. She would be OK in his arms, whether figuratively or for real. They could be close and that was what he really needed.

He dug a card out of his wallet and handed it to Trula. It was an old appointment reminder card from his doctor's office.

"Call Doc Lana's office mid-morning tomorrow. I'll call early and tell Payal on the desk to expect your call for a rush appointment. She will see you, maybe by Thursday. Tell her where you want to get to and she'll tell you how. Know from experience that you can't just wish yourself off Oxy; needs a plan."

Trula regarded the card and then looked back to Richard. She had lost faith in doctors when they either tried to lay on guilt in a lecture or cut her off for disobedience. Starting a new relationship with a doctor was scary, but she had some hope that this one might be different.

"OK. I'll do that. Guess we'll be here first thing, right?"

Richard shook his head. "At my other job tomorrow. Cook, remember? Wednesday to Saturday I'm choppin and stirrin. Saucier in training; sauces and soups my specialty. Working at getting some cred in the restaurant business. Maybe soon, I'll leave the joys of being a mover's helper behind."

He realized that the other two maybe thought that being part of a moving crew was pretty good work.

"Sorry, no offense to any present. But I am just a grunt. You two could run this business and should. Someday we can compare Lamborghinis."

Trula and Alex laughed. Now she knew what to get him. A week's rental of a Lamborghini, just to see if he really wanted one. Next week anything was possible.

Chapter 8 – Bash Wednesday

Trula's old alarm clock had taken some work to set. They came home early, knowing that they needed to be back at the townhouse first thing. Alex said seven-thirty AM. Trula nodded as if this meant something. It was a long way to then in kilometres, but not so much when you needed to squeeze both making out and sleeping into the small dark window of the night.

The clock needed to be plugged in, then set using the hieroglyphic instruction set molded into the faded plastic case. Several buttons had to be pushed at once. There was AM and PM to figure out, not only for the time-set but for the alarm as well, to ensure that it went off at the end of the night rather than at the beginning of the next one. The little buttons said fast and slow for setting both the hour and minutes. Fast always overshot the desired time. Slow meant dead-slow and required staring at the dull digital display as it ticked slowly up the numbers.

Trula was happy that she couldn't understand it. During her working days, the mysterious box seemed to know when she needed to get up, so it had remained in service. Once she stopped working at a normal job, it got unplugged and stored at the back of her closet. As it now glowed much as it always had when plugged in, she assumed that it would squawk at them sometime around dawn, when the earth had completed just about a third of a revolution.

Alex said her new phone would soon look after waking her up in the future. She guessed that whatever logic the alarm clock used would transfer over to her cellphone. Bob indicated both days pay would be ready once the truck was loaded, so she would have forty bucks to spare even after she paid Alex back his forty and bought him that owed breakfast. A little more left over could carry over to tomorrow's needed medications purchase. Maybe, she was hoping, to fill a legitimate prescription.

The alarm went off as light was just starting to crack the window blind. They had spent a second night sleeping together. This was no longer date territory; if they were going to continue hanging out together, Trula knew that she would need to understand what it was instead. She was glad that she had hauled her double bed along each time she moved. When Leena moved in with only a single, she had jokingly suggested that they go bed shopping as a matter of some urgency, because there was getting laid with a polite thank-you and good bye, then there was sleeping with someone you wanted to wake up with. A single pretty much eliminated the second option.

Leena stuck with her single. Trula guessed that it was a statement of how she thought her sex life might go. Of course, it could be that she had her sights set on banging a guy with his own king and a marble shower. No sense setting up a lame double in the flat to accommodate a pauper.

She and Alex hadn't established a morning routine. Yesterday, he ran off to his business with a face splash and a kiss. Today, they needed to get presentable on the same schedule and leave together. The early start meant that Leena was still around. Bathroom politics could be a problem.

Trula held onto Alex in the bed. She pointed to the door.

"Shhh...good morning...listen."

Alex rolled over and looked at her. He tried to focus through half-closed eyes.

"What?"

Trula was listening to Leena, who was currently in the bathroom, but wasn't running any water.

She whispered, "Not a shower-day for her. She'll be done in there in a minute or two, then we can take turns hitting the shower. Think that maybe we need to get a little less funky for the boys today."

Alex laughed. "Yeah, agree with that, although movers aren't known for their hygiene standards."

They were naked under the sheets. His hands started to wander even though they really didn't have time for anything.

He grinned, "Maybe we could sneak in together?"

She loved his hands on her, but didn't want to embarrass Leena by fucking like bunnies all over the place.

"Not gonna happen. We'd probably pull the shower curtain down or something. Besides this place is anything but soundproof. Later, maybe we'll have some time on our own after work."

Trula heard Leena exit the bathroom. She knew that she would be in her room getting her clothes organized before coming back out to finish her tea before leaving.

"Go now. You first. Towels in the cupboard are mine. Leena keeps hers in her room. You've got five minutes."

Alex hopped into his boxers. He peaked to see if the coast was clear then ducked out. He was lean and lightly illustrated in artistic tats with a Grecian theme, as homage to his family, she supposed. Most of their naked encounters were in the dark so discovering the what and the why behind the ink was still to come. She dated guys who wanted to show-off their full sleeve or full back tattoos pretty much as soon as they could strut them around. Most were grotesque in her view. She never understood making that permanent a choice before you're twenty, knowing that you'd still be looking at it on wrinkled fifty-year-old skin someday. But she had to admit that the idea of making a small statement was interesting.

She was glad that lovers' names and commitments were out of fashion for permanent body ink. She supposed that she might decide to get a nice, private, little one after next week. Or maybe she'd wait on that to see if Alex had any ideas for both of them. As he disappeared out the room door, she shook her head to clear any wishes except what she wanted the next two days to be. Beyond that, all bets were off.

Today was work, get paid, get a phone and get a doctor's appointment. Tomorrow, hopefully get in to see said doctor and come away with script to take away the uncertainty of scrambling for meds. Maybe some more work, who knew? Lots of possibilities all of a sudden. It was more of an agenda than she had in a long time and it was worthwhile getting out of bed. Which she did.

Trula was considering if she could do coffee for them. She had already dropped her morning pill to shed the overnight aches, which she had to admit were easier to take with Alex distracting her. One tab in the morning and one late afternoon was a long-ago usage that she had blown right through in her worst days. Right now, it was painful, but felt OK. Tolerating the pain was a sign that she could handle cutting back. She had another wishful thought about a completely clear near future. She shook that off too.

Leena came back out of her room all-business on her way to heading off to work. She raised an eyebrow as she dumped her mostly-full tea mug into the sink.

She offered, "Looking good with you two. Alex is a really nice guy. No more close encounters with the narcs, I hope."

Trula laughed. "No, thank God. That little business is closed down for now and we're not working for them anyway. So hopefully, no more problems."

After a pause, she continued. "Actually, worked all day with Bob the mover yesterday and we're going in again this morning. Alex showed up at the job last night and is working with me today. It's been great so far. They seem to think that I have some management potential. That would be a laugh for my last dozen or so bosses to hear, except the pot-heads, of course."

Leena tipped her head. "That's great, if that works for you. I have no doubt that you can do anything you want. She paused, then added, "Minus the monkey."

It was an honest shot. Leena didn't know about Trula's escapes to other realities or that the jumps were the primary cause of her pain. But she had seen enough of her decline to know that unless she kicked the habit, no work or no boyfriend, was really going to change things.

Trula nodded. "May be hope on that front, too. Richard, one of the moving guys, is ex-forces and says he connected to a great doc for PTSD treatment. He's going to get me in. Apparently, she's OK with prescribing to current need and then working on a plan to wind down rather than forcing users into fucking rehab. We'll see, but getting back on legit tabs will help with the staying out of jail part, which is something, I guess."

Leena never really stood still in the morning so was moving towards the door when Alex came into the kitchen doorway with his middle wrapped in a too-small towel. He was hanging onto the marginal overlap tightly as there wasn't enough length for any kind of tuck-in. Obviously, he had expected Leena to be out the door. He blushed when he saw her.

"Ah, oops, sorry. This isn't working too well. Maybe I'll forget coffee for the moment, as, uh, well, both hands needed here."

Both women laughed.

Leena wasn't a bundle of yucks, but she could go with a skit when it was so obviously presented.

She took a step towards Alex with her fist extended. "No, oh too bad. Maybe just a quick knuckle-bump before I go, then?"

Alex grinned and let one hand go, which resulted in some slippage, but no over-exposure. He tentatively raised his fist.

He said, "Well, proceed at your own risk."

Leena back-peddled and started heading towards the door.

She offered, "Er, no. Maybe Trula can explain the difference between a bath-towel and a face-towel for you, if this is going to be a regular thing."

She grinned at Alex and winked at Trula. It was a stretch, but this guy was lovely, seemed to understand the challenge and had opened Trula up to a group of supportive friends. Maybe he could save her. It was more of a wish than an expectation.

Trula took her turn in the shower, letting the hot water help with to smooth the first effects of the morning Oxy. She was wondering if she'd have company, in spite of her suggested postponement. But Alex didn't show up and was actually fully dressed when she came out, wrapped in a plenty big towel. She was hoping for a sit-down coffee, but he tapped his phone.

He said, "Bob called, says truck is on its way. He said for us to quit fucking—around added later, and get our slippery asses over there. That's a quote, by the way."

Trula forced out a laugh. "Well, my ass is actually slippery wet, so hope he doesn't mind if I dry it. Give me a couple minutes."

She paced herself getting dressed and counted off the heart beats needed to get the drugs fully into her system and out of her head. Eventually, they hustled over to the subway, grabbing bagels and traveller coffees on route. She cleared up on the way. They beat the truck to the townhouse by ten minutes, just long enough for Bob to add them into his morning round of insults and encouragement.

He directed the show to start. "They're going common carrier, so no contents insurance, except if the entire truck blows up. Pack it tight and don't spare the blankets. I'm charging the fuck out of them for those, so consider them little profit makers. We've got the trailer until noon, then the drivers come back to head out of here. Next stop—Kelowna on some fucking winery estate or something. So, don't break any wine glasses, they're gonna need them."

Rakesh might have taken this comment as an insult as he had packed all of the glassware. Bob picked up on his body-language and quickly covered up.

"But I'm sure that won't be a problem, eh Rakesh? All of the boxes are nicely packed and labelled—the rest of you just don't drop them. Got it?"

He looked around. "Rudy has the van. He sets the load. Richard up for big stuff, rest of you move it down. Alex, maybe tell Carlota the order on that. Until she takes over and starts giving orders like she always does."

He grinned at Trula, who was once again considering which of the insults she should respond too.

Bob continued, "Just kidding kids. 'Cept the don't break shit part. I'm outa here, as usual, but I will return with snacks and a bag 'o cash, so all will be happy campers.

He looked around as nobody was moving.

"That's it. Get the fuck to work."

The first days that Trula worked had involved a lot of mental challenges and only a little physical work. She had been up and down the stairs a few dozen times yesterday but most of the work was light—wrapping items and packing small boxes. Today, she was learning the hard part of being a moving company grunt. She staggered under her end of furniture pieces and mattresses, then hustled small stuff down as the packers made use of the mattresses and soft furniture to cushion and separate the hard stuff. Everything that could be damaged in any way was wrapped tightly in plastic and double protected with blankets. Boxes and crates were stacked snugly with heavy on the bottom and light on top. Everything was strapped securely using cinches hooked into recessed anchor rings on the trailer walls. Slowly, the trailer filled up as the house emptied. By the twentieth trip down and up, Trula was staggering from her meds and from the continuous hard work.

She also was developing a couple of nice blisters inside her ragged runners. Fortunately, she had worn light socks, but she wished that she had on well-worn boots or high-tops. She made herself a promise that if she kept this up, she'd invest in the proper gear. The if part was significant, as this was fun and she felt somewhat productive for the first time in months, but she knew that she was only three turns of the planet away from not needing to do any work at all. It was a dilemma, as the work seemed to be curing her. She knew that unlimited money would likely do just the opposite. For now, she chose to ignore the little burns and the constant background pain and just get to it.

She watched the process for selecting the next piece and loading the truck. Rudy said what he wanted and the three guys seemed to know what to bring next, so there was always something staged, ready to go in. She tried to get into the rhythm of it by alternating unboxed items with the many boxes. Small stuff accumulated around the edges to fill in gaps, then it disappeared inside. The truck seemed to be getting full quickly, but it had been accurately estimated for capacity, so everything would fit. By late morning, they were getting down to the short strokes. Trula ran out of stuff to bring down. She could relax while the guys finished up the packing.

True to his word, Bob returned with boxes of donuts about the same time that the doors were closed and the extra packing materials were rounded up to put in the pick-up. The place was a mess as the owners hadn't so much as removed personal garbage before taking off, so black plastic bags of it were sitting all over the place. The newly exposed dusty corners and various bits of left-behind paper gave the place a sketchy inner-city vacant lot feel. It would all change tomorrow when a cleaning crew came in to polish up the place for buyer's possession a few days out. Too bad that their work would most certainly be dulled by construction dust a few days after that. As beautiful as the elaborate kitchen and bathrooms were, new owners with money to burn would redo most of them. The kitchen wasn't white enough—the bathrooms weren't marbled enough. Or, more likely, everything fancy was someone else's idea, so just had to go.

Trula came away from the job with a hundred and eighty bucks. Bob didn't tell anybody what others got, but she had the impression that they were all pleased with their little folded pack of bills. It wasn't much more than fifteen bucks an hour, but it came without the need to be an employee or to kiss-ass with a boss, with HR, with the taxman, or with any of the other weirdos in a workplace.

With a couple of days together, she understood that each of them had a reason to like Bob's on-call casual arrangement. She knew about Richard's PTSD. He had a casual habit too. Plus, she guessed he had some sort of disability payment thing going, that maybe assumed he couldn't work. Under the table work for cash didn't need to be reported.

Rakesh seemed like the kind of guy to burn candles at both ends. He likely had more than one gig going. She made up a scenario where he was maybe the brother-in-law in a large multi-family home where everybody worked their asses off around the clock. Probably have a driveway full of Audis too. White folks are a doomed race in the face of this kind of determination.

Rudy might be illegal, in the country with no status or work permit. He would be very good at keeping his head down and being invisible. He would be supporting his family back in the old country until one of them managed to get an immigrant visa. Then the whole family would start to work its way over, one by one.

Alex, she was still figuring out. She suspected that his relationship with Bob was different. Alex wouldn't ever be anyone's employee, but like the rest he still needed money. Funny though, Bob didn't offer him a pay pack. Whatever their arrangement was, he didn't get cash like everybody else. With some time to think about it, she was suspicious about the original excuse that Alex couldn't make the Saturday water-break job. Had he just called Bob and told him to add her to the crew? Was he now ensuring that she got more work? Bob seemed to like her and she thought that she did OK work, but his immediate acceptance of her as something other than just another grunt was a little surprising. Most new guys would need to prove themselves for any boss. Even the crew seemed pre-conditioned to just accept her leadership. Was that all a set-up too?

The rest of them were going to have a liquid-enhanced lunch. Alex suggested to her that they pass and head over to line up her cellphone. Bob was effusive and not insulting at all in parting. He walked out with them.

"Hope everybody is happy with the profit on this one."

Trula asked, "Profit? Isn't that your problem Bob? We just work for our pittance here."

Bob laughed and looked over at Alex. They seemed to pass some unspoken communication.

He responded, "Yeah, guess you do. But you're happy with the pits or whatever that is then?"

Alex wasn't saying anything, as apparently, he wasn't being paid anyway.

She smiled, "Hey, compared to my normal busted state, I'm temporarily rich."

Bob frowned, "Temporarily?"

"Got debts to pay off to my shark here; got to go buy a phone so I can be at your beck and call and, for my poor feet, got to go buy some better shoes."

She looked down at her ragged runners. "Maybe something sensible in a nice steel-toed slip-on."

Bob nodded, "Good idea. Only need one filing-cabinet set down on your toes to really ruin your day or your month."

They had stopped out on the sidewalk as the rest of the crew piled into Bob's pick-up.

He asked, "Sure I can't drop you somewhere?"

Alex finally spoke. "No thanks, we're heading over to Kensington. Maybe check out the army surplus for m'lady's boots. And that's where my phone guy is."

Bob nodded and grinned. "OK then, yer on yer own. Don't get mugged with that wad of cash."

He turned away, but then spun back. "Oh hey! Got a job for the week-end. Trula, you up for it? Other half of last week-end's job, putting everything back, but does need a brain in charge."

He now used her correct name, so maybe the random name thing was meant to be a joke with the other guys. Maybe on Saturday he told them, "Alex is sending his woman over, Cindy or something. Be nice or deal with Alex." The name joke had just continued.

Bob hadn't said anything about Alex working the weekend. Her suspicions seemed to be playing out.

She replied, "Well sure, probably, unless y'know, I win the lottery, or something. Alex here invited too?"

She wanted to test her theory that Alex was something other than just another labourer.

Bob grinned. "Just need one brain this time dear, but drag him along if ya can't get rid of him."

He was off. The boys in the truck waved as he drove by.

They headed back to the subway. Alex somehow had a loaded Presto card. He also had a bunch of toonies, so picked up her ride. Trula had a few questions to ask him, but decided that the answers weren't important anyway; she let them go. The denial of suspicion was part of a new mantra she was repeating. Just enjoy the moment—good things will come.

Since Alex came into her life, only good things followed. She was tempted to touch wood, but on the subway, the only visible wood was an old man's cane propped-up further down the car. She guessed that the thought was just as protective as the action.

They transferred at Bloor and rode over to Bathurst. Walking south, Alex suggested some street-meat, so they lined up a food vendor's truck and indulged in some marvellously spicy tacos. Trula jumped in to pay.

"Think this one's got to be on me. Maybe call it half the breakfast I owe you."

Alex laughed, "You got it. And you can buy us a couple bromos later when this stuff all comes back for a second appearance."

She was realizing how much she just enjoyed his company. She liked the sex and the sleeping together too, but would be happy just to hang out with him if that part didn't last. Unfortunately, between a man and woman, a relationship was usually an all-or-nothing package deal. She repeated her mantra to beat down any wishful thinking, but found herself humming, "Let it Be..."

"You really think that I should wear army boots?"

Now he did a double-take. The man wasn't used to a woman's random thoughts.

"They're OK, if you maybe want to try out a grunge look. Not likely army stuff in steel-toes, but maybe stiffer leather. There are a couple real shoe stores in the market as well, so no pressure. Just lookin as they say. But those have got to go."

He pointed at her ragged shoes.

He made a face. "Don't want to be sucking broken toes."

She punched him lightly. His mouth and tongue hadn't quite got as far as her feet. The idea kind of freaked her out anyway.

"Please give me advance notice if you're so inclined. My toes need work at the best of times and at their worst, well, you might need gag. I sure would. And, just to let you know, in case you have some other fantasy, I don't give toe."

Alex grinned. "Now you're making me horny again. Let's make shopping quick and I'll show you my place. Not as big as yours, but you'll love the location."

Boots, as it turned out were significantly harder to buy than the cellphone. Alex's guy behind the counter of the second-hand store offered a box of generic smartphones to pick from, none of which were powered up. Trula had no interest in lugging a monster brick around, so picked the most compact one, which already had a case. It was also the least beat-up.

"Good choice," said the guy. "Fifty bucks includes an unlimited use phone number and unlimited data. No guarantee on how long it will work, but if it stops in less than three months, bring it back for a free card change."

Alex nodded. He had underestimated the fee by ten bucks, but it was in the range, so all good. The guy asked for twenty minutes to power it up and to load the voice message app. They headed off to find boots.

The army surplus store was good for a bunch of stuff, but not for boots. Trula grabbed a couple of khaki t-shirts, a pair of cargo-style work pants, some work gloves, a sturdy water bottle and a great fatigue hat. The boots were all standard issue and too ugly as far as she was concerned.

Three doors down, a discount clothes and footwear store had a lot more choice. They considered the whole steel toes option, but finally just went for solid ankle-height work boots in a lovely tan leather. Trula grabbed some red laces to replace the dull brown ones. She got a bag and swapped her shoes for the boots for a break-in walkaround.

'You're ready to kick ass now." Alex was admiring the boots, which compared to his cross-trainers looked a lot more workperson-like.

She grinned. "I feel like I should have a toolbelt and hard hat. Maybe a really-tight wife-beater undershirt and a big ol" cigar."

Alex got the idea. "Yeah, all sweat-stained and grubby. Muscles kinda bulging out. And a slid-down rear waist band that shows a little ass-crack when bent over. Worn, commando-style, of course.

She stared at him. "Fuck, yer taking the image a little far there! Next, I'll be losin the pants altogether and just wearing the boots while I climb all over you in the back of a pick-up parked out on some wilderness building site."

Alex considered the possibilities. "Not sure about the wilderness part, but my apartment is two blocks over and I've got a little mini-construction site right in my bedroom that could use some boots-on, pants-off handiwork."

They laughed and stole a sidewalk kiss. Early days and any excuse to fuck was OK for both of them.

The phone was ready when they got back. Trula was down about a hundred and twenty bucks of the two-hundred or so she had been carrying around. Alex didn't want anything back yet. As she tucked the remains away, she finally thought about her medication stock. She had three pills left. One would go shortly and two would go on tomorrow. Her plan was to stay strung-out Friday to duplicate what happened last week as closely as possible. But the snap-back in time wouldn't do anything for her pain, so she really needed to have more tablets in hand by then.

Now that she had a phone, she needed to call Richard.

'I need to see if Richard got that doctor's appointment for me. He said he would try for Thursday or worst-case Friday morning."

'He gave you his number?"

'Yeah; said I'd call later. Good a time as any right now. Thinking that we may be a little distracted once we get to your place."

Alex grinned. "Park on a bench along here. I want to grab some beer at the grocery anyway. Think a steak might go good later?"

'Yer talkin my language, sir."

He gave her a thumbs-up and sprinted off towards the Loblaw store at the end of the block.

Richard answered on the second ring.

"Who's this?"

"Trula. From work."

"Oh. Hi Trula. Your number is blocked on the display. Thought you might be one of my government minders. Can't be too careful."

She laughed, "Not likely that. Just got the phone. Guess it's better not to display a number when it's probably stolen."

He laughed too. "Stolen? Maybe not good to mention that on the actual phone."

"I don't know. It was cheap enough to throw away if it doesn't work. Guy wrote out the number for me, so you'll have to punch it into your phone the old-fashioned way."

"Speaking of, I should give you the info on the doctor's office. Got you an appointment for tomorrow at eleven-thirty in the morning."

"Wow, that's great. Your doctor's a woman, right?"

"Yeah. Didn't pick her—just got assigned, but she's great. Looks after lots of vets, so I guess she has some connection to the department."

"And you think I should just be honest and ask for what I want?"

"Yeah. Believe me, she's seen ten times worse. Some guys can barely function without a significant Oxy load."

"Well, I've been cutting back and want to keep workin on it so, if she's cool to help with that, I'll be very happy."

"Uh, there is one thing." He paused, then continued, "Well, they weren't really taking any new patients, except family members. So, uh, I kinda told them that you're my spouse."

Trula choked, "As in we're married?"

"Well, maybe just common-law, but yeah, we're a couple...so I'll give you my address and my veteran's number. You can probably get your meds free if I get you an actual benefits card. If we wanna try to go that route."

"Shit, Richard, no offense—you're a great guy and all, but this is a little sudden."

He laughed, "Yeah, never thought about it that way. Each little lie requires another one; pretty soon our story is that we have three kids and a bungalow in Scarborough."

She wasn't sure. "I'm not a great liar when it comes to officials. I'll probably blow it on the first question."

He laughed, "Just go with the angle to get in to see the doc. She won't pry. Once you're in, she's not going to kick you out. We can have a just-friends break-up somewhere down the road."

She feigned offense. "Oh, so now you want to break-up? I know, it's not me, it's you."

They both laughed. Trula figured she could give it a try.

"So, give me the details, as in where we actually live, and maybe you'd better tell me some more stuff about your life so I can at least pretend well."

They kicked the information back and forth. Trula used a left-over box marker in her jeans pocket to make fat notes on the back of her receipts.

Alex came back toting a couple of grocery bags.

"You get him?"

Trula nodded, but looked back with a sad face.

She mumbled, "I've got some bad news."

Alex lost his smile. "What?"

She looked downcast. "We can't go out anymore—I'm married."

Alex tipped his head, to his credit, reacting calmly. "Oh."

He paused, then quietly asked, "You separated or something, or do you really mean married?"

She shook her head. "Yeah. To Richard. I'm his spouse."

He was confused. "What's spouse mean?"

"Guess, I'll find out, cuz that's what he told his doctor."

"You're shittin me, aren't you?"

She finally grinned. "Not about the doctor part, just the being-married part. Saying that I'm his spouse was the only way for him to get me into his doc, so that's what I'll need to be for about ninety minutes anyway."

Alex finally smiled too. "Could be worse. Mighta been Bob. Hope it works."

Trula grinned, but then hugged him, to which he was defenseless as he had bags in both hands.

She said, "Everything is working since you came into my life. I'm starting to think that you're some kind of wizard leading me down the yellow brick road to the magic kingdom."

Alex laughed, "Think that you've got your magical places sort of mashed up there, but you're right. I am magic. I've got the wand to prove it."

She laughed and finally let him go.

He groaned, "Let's get going before my arms gain a couple inches."

Alex's flat above a store was all one room and a bathroom. The lack of walls made it feel bigger, but each part was small by anybody's standards. He didn't sit, except to eat, so the only furniture was a dinette set and a bed. A TV was mounted on the wall opposite the bed. The kitchen had been upgraded with a modern counters and appliances. New windows and a redone floor made the main room feel modern. The bathroom, which Trula needed badly by the time they got there, proved to be equally nice. There was no tub, but the shower might fit two. Trula used the private moment and Alex's toothpaste-coated cup, which probably had been there for six months, to wash down her afternoon pill. Thankfully, she had packed her remaining pills along in an old metal aspirin box.

They spent the first hour in the big bed. The new boots stayed on the floor. By then, they were exhausted and Alex was getting hungry for his steak.

Trula was almost pain-free. She was never actually pain-free but her sensation of pain was now relative. Compared to a non-addict, who's life hadn't gone to shit, she was always in a lot of discomfort. Compared to her own non-medicated state, she was in pretty good shape. But, with the edges rounded off, she felt detached and dozy. She always dipped through the fuzzy state for an hour or two after she dropped her pill. She asked if she could stay in bed until the food was ready. Alex checked his agreement for only a moment, then nodded.

"Want me to hold off cooking for an hour? You could grab some sleep."

"Maybe a good idea. But you're starving. You should go ahead and eat."

He replied, "Hungry yes, starving no. We'll lean into those steaks later. I could use a nap too."

He climbed in beside her and put an arm around her. Somehow, he knew that she was hurting and waiting for her meds to fully kick in. As much as they pretended that everything was normal, she still had a serious habit that ruled her life. Maybe tomorrow that could start to change, but there was no simple or easy path out of the forest of opioids. She needed to survive and pretend until Friday. Then it could all change, one way or another.

Sure enough, after an hour's nap to let her meds settle in and to let her head clear just a little, she was feeling much better. They took turns in the shower and then she watched as Alex expertly skillet-fried the two T-bones to medium rare perfection. Sitting at a table with placemats and proper cutlery while devouring the steaks along with a store-bought salad, she once again had the thought of how nice it would be for this to be a lasting relationship. They couldn't spend dawn to dusk and night together every day. He had stuff to do. She had to look after her medical needs and work, she supposed. But in some version of the future, maybe they could be a couple.

She had never thought herself worthy of a partnership with someone else as she didn't bring anything to the table. She was dependent on drugs and didn't care about much else. She had no money and no particular skills. She couldn't commit much to anyone else as she had so little to give. She might make a needy friend for someone with patience and a good heart, but to be the chosen partner of a guy like Alex, who had his life together, was beyond even her wildest hopes. The money part would change. Would that be good or bad for their relationship? She could only let happen what would happen.

After they were done eating, she spoke quietly.

"I should get back to my place. Laundry to do. Got to finish breaking in those boots. Maybe connect with Leena, so she doesn't think I'm dead in a ditch somewhere."

He laughed, "As in, I killed you and dumped you there? Kinda hoped that I had made a better impression than that. But you do have a phone now. You could just call her and let her know that you're staying here tonight. We could, ah...watch some TV. With dessert that is."

"Dessert? You bought dessert? If you tell me it's apple crisp and ice cream, I'm going to start checking for a hidden camera. This can't be for real."

He continued smiling. "Well, I hope that there aren't any cameras or we're going to be on some weirdo's jerk-off reel. Sorry, completely missed your favourite. I went with mine. Got some cannoli from the bakery."

"Pasta? What kind of dessert is that?"

"Not cannelloni. Just cannoli. You don't know what cannoli is?"

She frowned. Was he making fun of her?

"Guess I didn't lead a privileged childhood like you."

He got up to get the bakery box. "Well, then, you are in for an amazing experience."

### Chapter 9 - Thursday's Children

The doctor's office was far enough away from the subway that Trula considered taking a cab from Coxwell station. It would be a splurge and would have been well worth it if the weather was shit. But the good weather held—she figured a brisk walk north would help her settle down and get her story straight. She rehearsed questions and answers all the way up. At the second-floor office in a small medical building, she fought her way across the "Don't do this or you will die." Poster bedecked waiting room, elbowing through a crowd that appeared to be completely disorganized and on the verge of some kind of riot.

The office obviously dealt with an edgier clientele that some of her former MD's. There was a distinct smell of pot in the air, probably coming from embedded smoke in the scruffy clothing of half the attenders. It could just as easily be coming from lungs that loaded up on a vaporizer out front and spent the next half-hour expelling the residual. With pot now legal, the opportunity to be legitimately stoned whilst going about your day opened a door to conspicuous consumption, even if most of the weed still came from illegal sources. These folks all seemed to have some sort of shared camaraderie of the type that lawbreakers easily fell into. But why the fuck were they all in this doctor's office today?

When she finally got to the glass-enclosed front desk, she stuck her provincial health card through the opening at the bottom of the window into the hand of gender non-specific receptionist who passed back a clipboard with questions to be answered.

Trula scanned the two-sided form. Was it a trap?

"Uh, don't really need any treatment, just here to get a prescription renewed. Do I still need to do this?"

The leaning-male-today receptionist looked up and gave her the slightest smile possible.

"Yes, you do, darling. All new patients have to do it, even if you're in perfect health. It's just for file mostly, so we have your contact information."

Trula shrugged and turned towards a wall where she could lean. There were no empty chairs. She remembered Richard's joke about lies upon lies as she considered the form. There appeared to only be one reference to anyone else, which was: Next of Kin? Should this be Richard? She guessed that this was death bed stuff so wouldn't be used for anything here anyway. She put down Richard's name and cell number.

The form questions got tougher about half-way down when the focus moved to prior conditions and current medications. Her only treatable prior and current condition was needing medication. She didn't quite know how to put that, as there was no underlying cause that anyone would understand. She had hummed and hawed creatively to a succession of doctors about handling work stress, being depressed, suffering persistent headaches, being immobilized by backache and even having impolitely-bad gas pains in her prior efforts to get, keep and expand her opioid allotment. The real problem: the need to painfully step out of reality to cope with her life didn't make sense, even to her. She'd never tried it on a doctor, as the likely outcome would be a psychiatric referral and a recommendation for lithium or something equally nasty.

Now her problem was just being "addicted"—no, being "dependent" sounded better, particularly for a soldier's spouse. She put that down, then she listed her current meds as four-a-day Oxy 60's. She was getting by on two 40's a day this week, but as doctors seemed to feel a need to underprescibe in a weird accommodation to their oath or something, she figured—aim high and hope to come away with what she really needs.

As she answered no-no-no to the remainder of the questions, she realized that other than the addiction, she was probably in perfect health. The long list of really bad diseases like heart failure, diabetes and cancer didn't apply to her at all. She was thin-enough and all of her important parts worked just fine, mostly. She couldn't get pregnant, without a period to speak-of, probably due to the drugs or maybe due to one too many trips through the looking glass, so until something really changed in her life, infertility was just a convenient state and not actually an affliction.

She signed the form and waded back through the crowd to return it to the non-gendered receptionist. Bad memories from one too many overflowing walk-in clinics came to mind; she was dreading a long wait to get in. The receptionist repeated the tight little smile and scanned the form. Trula could see "zis" eyes linger on the meds and afflictions lines. "Zie" looked up with a finger just about there on the form. Zie stood and slid a window pane out of the way to lean over and talk to her.

"So, no prior injury or surgery?"

"Nope."

"PTSD diagnosis?"

"Nope."

"You ever had meds turned down or cut-off?"

"Yep." Trula figured honesty could start right here.

"Using street drugs now?"

"No. Don't go there." One necessary little lie.

"Injecting, snorting, smoking?"

"No. Just oral tabs, used as intended."

Reception person seemed satisfied. Zie hadn't written any full words on the form, but had doodled a bit in the "admin-use only" area. Trula figured that they probably had a code system, so the Doc would know where to start. Plus, if you lied in your responses and then came in all tracked or with your nose flaming, they would have a pretty good idea that you were going to keep on lying and keep on abusing. Trula was supposed to be a respectable veteran's spouse. She wasn't a mainliner—not yet anyway.

The receptionist smiled a little more now and put the form in a buff file folder on the desk. The folder already had Trula's name on it. Zie handed back her health card.

"Grab a seat, if you can. Should just be a couple minutes to get you in."

Trula wondered if she'd heard right. "Couple minutes? Aren't all these people ahead of me?"

The receptionist now actually grinned. "Oh, no. It's pee-in-a-bottle day for the folks on some sort of abstinence order. Not us. They go in the other door over there to an official lab. Looks nuts, but they take a number from the dispenser on the wall and they go through quick. There's just a whole lot of them some days. They stand and pace mostly because they've loaded up on water or coffee—a full bladder saves time."

Zie considered the scruffy assembly. "We really should get our own waiting room."

Trula returned to her waiting spot against the wall. She tipped her head side to side and rolled her shoulders to loosen up. But for the Grace of God, ordered abstinence could be her sentence. She was too nervous to stay in one spot. She walked over and pretended to scan the magazine rack for something to read. She had no intention of actually touching anything some sicky had sneezed on, but the two-year-old magazine headlines were amusing anyway. Back when most of the shit in the headlines happened, she was still employed and insured. Different times.

Soon enough, receptionist-person was leaning out the door and calling her name. She was happy to slip out of the noisy waiting area and into one of the little examination rooms down a hall.

"Doctor Luiski will be right in. Just sit for now. She'll let you know if she wants to examine anything."

Zie pulled the door closed. As almost everyone must do when left alone in one of these rooms, Trula scanned the counter and the open shelves for anything that she could use at home. The piss sample bottles made good containers for vitamins or stuff that came in monster bottles. Couple pair of latex gloves might come in handy. Some alcohol wipes and cotton swabs in glass cookie jar thingies also looked tempting. She decided to be good and just sit tight. No sense being caught with her hand in a cookie jar on her first visit.

Minutes later, the doctor came charging through the door in a whirl of loose clothing layers. She was overweight, to be polite, with a curly mop of auburn hair. She was dressed in a baggy dark red, past-the-ass top that seemed to have Captain Kangaroo pockets on the front, full of maybe blister pack samples. Over top of that, she had on a wrinkled and stained white lab coat that also had stuff jingling in pockets. She was wearing one set of glasses and had another hanging from a chain around her neck, along with a couple gold chains and some sort of hospital ID on a fluorescent green strap. Below her snug black pants, she had ringed socks in blue and green on good-sized feet tucked into well-worn pink crocs. Trula guessed that this was one extroverted broad. Her first loud words seemed to confirm the assessment.

"So, what's wrong with you this time?"

This was before she'd sat down, tossed the folder aside and started two-finger typing on a keyboard in front of a terminal screen, turned ever so slightly away from the patient chair, presumably so she could type whatever she wanted into their file.

Trula hadn't expected the question and sputtered for an answer. Before she got one out, a second question came. The doctor was now typing away with her head down.

"Not pregnant again, are you?"

Trula didn't know how to answer that. "Uh, no. Never have been. Can't actually. You sure that you have the right file there?"

The "can't" part must have actually connected with some receptor in the doctor's otherwise blank patient-facing information collector. She looked over. She didn't answer Trula's question.

The doctor's fingers were hovering. "Can't, as in, it would be inconvenient, or can't as in, tried and failed?"

Trula had to decode the question. "Never wanted to be or tried to be, but also can't. Not menstruating."

The doctor considered the response. "So, you don't use protection?"

Not waiting for an answer, she added, "Should do that anyway for STD protection. Plus, surprises happen."

Trula nodded, "Uh, yeah. Know that. One partner. Pregnancy might be OK, surprise or otherwise."

It was a lie. Getting knocked-up would be a nasty surprise, but the answer provided an opportunity to add some substance to the thin claim of a spousal relationship. She just hadn't said Richard was the partner.

The doctor shook her head. "Not right now, it wouldn't be OK. Loading the shit out of synthetic opioids like you are, you shouldn't allow the chance of pregnancy. Tough on junior to ride out your clean-up, which you'll attempt poorly, or to be born strung out, when you fail."

She rummaged in one of her pockets and pulled out a couple condoms in colourful packaging.

"Take these and tell hubby he's getting dressed to go out, or in, from now on. Lots more in the bowl out front. Take a bunch. Buy a case."

Trula pulled the packages over and arranged them into a little poker chip stack. She had no intention of using them, but didn't want to debate the merits, pre-prescription.

The doctor pounded away at her keyboard for a few seconds more then turned back to her again.

"What's up with your current doctor? See that you say you don't have one, but somehow you're managing to secure a shitload of Oxy each day."

Trula was getting the idea that this was a different kind of doctor. They had skipped over why, how and when and gone straight to what. Her well-rehearsed grounds for appeal, including pretending a recent house move, not having transportation and maybe, if honest, not having any money, weren't going to be needed. There would be no morality-play preamble.

She finally spoke again, more confidently. "He was an asshole."

The doctor smiled. Now they were getting somewhere.

"Trula, right? That what you use?

Trula nodded.

"Well I'm Svetlana, but you can call me Lana. Doc Lana. Everybody does."

She turned away from her keyboard. "Trula, where do you get your pills?"

Trula hesitated again, not wanting to out the back door pharmacy, but also wanting to make it clear that she didn't do street drugs.

'Uh, Doc...I get legit tabs from a reputable druggist. Just not a licensed one."

Lana didn't blink. She probably knew the marketplace players better that most users.

"OK. Good for that anyway. But damn expensive right?"

Trula nodded. "Had benefits once—ran out. Well, the job ran out. My doctor cut me off for over-using, if that makes any sense. Off street guy has worked for a while, but I can't afford him now."

Lana shook her head, "Says here you're hooked up with a forces vet. Hang on to that and maybe you'll get insurance back."

Trula nodded. "Yeah, hope so, but I really want to get clear of the dope. He's such a great guy. I don't want to be stoned anymore. Hoping I can figure out the pain some other way."

Doc Lana had heard every story there was about kicking meds. Most were bullshit aspirations that never came to anything.

"What's the pain from?"

Trula had to consider what excuse to give. Could Doc Lana hear the truth and not think that she was nuts? She already trusted her, possibly unwisely. Might as well try it.

She responded, "I step out. Used to do it a lot when I was trying to cope at work. I can step out of reality and come back for a do-over. But last couple years, each time I do, I come back in more pain."

Doc Lana had heard versions of this one before, but usually from patients with obvious mental health challenges.

"You can disassociate then? Turn off the current situation and tune back in after a blank space for another try?"

Trula had never heard it related back to her so precisely.

"Yeah, just like that. Except, when I come back the first go-round never happened."

Doc Lana nodded. "I'm sure it seems that way. It's a common coping mechanism. Soldiers in a firefight can lose chunks of time. Fortunately, it's just the perception of events; their body and their fighting abilities aren't actually disrupted. But, in many PTSD cases, it's a common perception."

Trula didn't like being classified as something she wasn't.

"I don't have PTSD. It's just something I've done since being a kid."

Lana turned fully to her and leaned forward. "Maybe that's how far back the trauma goes. Easy to blank it out completely."

Trula was stuck on that one. There were definitely many years of her early childhood that were a complete blank to her now. She assumed that she had left them behind in another reality.

Lana continued, "But we're not here to work the cause out today. I've got no couch and don't have a lot of use for them, except for napping. Let's just see if we can get you on a path out of this medication mess first."

She paused, then asked. "Can you follow instructions?"

Trula nodded.

"I ask because it looks like you didn't follow them in the past when your body and brain kept asking for a little more."

Trula answered, "I have a big reason to get better now."

She was thinking about the lottery and maybe about Alex too, but guessed the doctor assumed she meant Richard.

Doc Lana smiled. "Good. Get all the help you can."

She continued, "I'm going to give you a prescription for six-hour 40's—one tablet, three times a day. Has to be precise. Wake-up, take one. Lunchtime, take one. Supper, take one. No deviation—don't bump that up or skip. No going without to be a martyr. Do not sell your pills. Eat and sleep regular. Get out and walk off the buzz if a tab hits too hard. Shouldn't though, you're getting the same medicine, but stretching it out. Think good thoughts. Sleep without any meds or dope. Got all that?"

Trula fought down a smile and nodded. Compared to past lectures and putdowns by cranky doctors, this was a prescription for living with her meds. It was perfect.

Lana continued. "Take the prescription downstairs and fill it right now if you've got the money. Got a deal with Herman the pharmacist. Dispenses as cheaply as he can. Script is for about a week's supply. They'll come on a blister card. Twenty-five tablets. Then, I'll see you again and you'll tell me it's going great. Deal?"

Trula had her eighty bucks. Should be enough.

Lana continued. "You make another appointment for next Thursday or Friday before you leave. Bring the used pill card with you. I want to see that the right number of pills have been punched. Do as well as you can. Once I know that you're on a consistent usage pattern, we'll start replacing the Oxy little at a time. Take us a couple months to wind it down, but you can do it, if you want."

Trula nodded.

Lana laughed. "Now, sit up on the table there and unbutton a bit. I want to poke some of your parts while I've got you."

It turned out that she could afford the tablets at Herman's cost-plus pricing. Much to her surprise, she was walking back to the subway with twenty-five of the same tablets that she had scratched and clawed for, using all of her money, in little illegal envelopes of four or six tablets. And she had a prescription to cover them. They were perfectly legal. The only problem she had was that she really didn't want to start them until Saturday, but would be expected to take at least two today and three on Friday. She could always punch them out and not take them. Maybe she could just keep a little reserve in one of her recently-stolen piss sample bottles.

Her new phone rang as she was walking away from the subway on the way to her house. By then, she had figured out that she could have a good day today, but start all-day abstinence tomorrow morning to ensure that the street pills worked as planned. It was all good. She had dry-swallowed her first push-out tab while being gently and noisily rocked through a dozen subway stations on the ride home. After fishing out cash and paying a one-ride premium to get on, she started a mental list of things that needed fixing when she had some money. One was getting and loading up a Presto card so she could walk on and off transit whenever she felt like it.

She guessed that she might be tempted to just move out of Toronto to someplace where she could have a bunch of hot cars, or maybe trucks, and bomb around all day. But she was a city person; a big spread in the country sounded far away and lonely. Instead of out of the noise, why not up above it? Get a nice penthouse and forget owning a car. In the city, she already had a fleet of drivers just itching to drive her around. When how-much didn't matter, she could up-class her Uber or Lyft ride and not worry about any of the crap involved in getting someplace. But she'd still get a Presto card—she liked the subway and you met the most interesting people there.

Alex was calling. "Unknown Number" might as well be his directory entry.

He wasn't a how-are-you kind of guy, but tried. "Hey, how was the new doc? Service down to your expectations?"

She laughed. "No, entirely up and beyond expectations. She's a character that I could actually like going back to. Strange and to the point. She didn't give me a hard time and I basically told her the truth, which in itself, is pretty different from conversations with every doctor since old Doc Bailey stuck his nose and hand up my crotch when I was fifteen. Been lying and keeping my knees down ever since. But this one, who I'm supposed to call Doc Lana, might be different."

Alex didn't reply right away, then asked, "So you're all knees-up for Doc Lana then? That might sound vaguely romantic, if I didn't figure I already knew your preference."

"Well, there's no stirrups involved in getting script for Oxy, unless you're talking about old Doc Bailey. We kept it light and friendly, but maybe later, you never know, I might be inclined to show her my snatch. You got a problem with that?"

"None whatsoever, except that I guess that would mean it would be off-limits for me about then. Guessing bruised and rubbed-raw isn't the best condition to go in with."

"Jesus, now you've done it. Where are you? Could use a little mid-day bruising right now."

"I'm sitting on your front porch."

"And I'm rounding the corner. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you planned this bruising."

"Uhm, maybe. Or maybe I just innocently brought you lunch in this bag I'm holding. But we could do that part later."

She was home. The call was over and they were undressing each other on the way to the bedroom.

Out of breath, she said, "I want to have some people over tomorrow night."

She broke their post-coital panting recovery with the disconnected statement. Alex looked up at her in both amusement and confusion. He was still enjoying his flat-lined nerve-ends after a half hour of intensive build-up and, finally, release. Forwarding his attention to consider Friday night and the possibility of a social gathering was a challenge for his tapped-out brain. His only defence was repeating the part of her statement that he had grasped, with the addition of his own interrogative. His real aim was to gain some processing space.

"Over, as in here?"

She grinned. "Yeah, just a little get-together. So many folks have been good to me in the last week. Be nice to thank them."

He finally shrugged with the one shoulder that wasn't buried underneath her.

"Can I come?"

She raised up to make eye-contact. "Of-course. You're the very best thing that's happened to me in the last two weeks."

"And you are the best thing for me too." He was pleased that had come out spontaneously and smoothly.

He added, "So, how about the party's on me?"

"On you?"

"Just booze and chips. Maybe a dip or two."

"You know that I intend to pay you back about ten times over, right?"

"I'll take it in trade."

She pushed off and fully sat up in mock anger.

"So, I'm just a hooker now?"

He grinned, "It is an honourable profession...but, maybe, for a younger person."

Now she started pummeling him in pretend fury. He was defenseless in laughter and took the beating as yet one more reminder that his runaway mouth was always only a stupid thought away from getting him in deep trouble. He ended the attack by working past her punches to get in close enough for a bearhug and a kiss. They rolled off the bed together and spent a couple minutes necking on the floor considering if another go-round of making out was physically possible.

She finally broke off and said. "I'm hungry'

He grinned, "Me too."

Between bites, she said, "I'm thinking Richard for sure, Bob, if he'll come, Rudy, if we can get a hold of him and Rakesh, if it's not like his sabbath or something. Course they can all bring somebody, if they have somebody. Thinking Richard might be an interesting friend for Leena, if he's single. But no matchmaking on my part. I would hate it if someone set me up and who knows if they have anything in common? That's max ten people if everyone shows. Maybe we could actually feed them if the barbeque out back still works. What do you think?"

Alex blinked, "About which part?"

Trula thought of it all together as a plan, so had expected just an "OK."

She frowned, "Well, the invites first, then."

Alex frowned in fake concentration. "You mean Bob and the current crew?"

They had a back and forth about the make-up of the crew and whether they would be good party-goers. He lost the argument that they probably weren't. In the end, he conceded that there was no harm in inviting them.

Alex tried to cover everything she had thrown out. "Sounds pretty good. Bob will pass through any party and may or may bring Rennie, who you haven't met, yet. He likes you, so I'm sure that he'll show. For the others, I'll extend the invite. Guessing any of them might show up with someone on a Friday night, but you're supposed to work Saturday, right? Having the entire crew hungover, except Rakesh of course, would make for an interesting job. But, probably not the first time."

She nodded, thinking about needing to work Saturday because she said she would, but wondering how Bob will handle having a ten-millionaire on his crew for one last day.

She asked, "How about the food?"

Alex shook his head. "No fucking barbeque, please. Burnt meat handed to you is OK if you're stoned enough, but cooking it is a complete pain. If we got rid of all the barbeques, we'd probably solve climate change."

He continued, "I'll provide the snacks and something great to lean into once we know who's coming. I have friends at lots of take-out places that I've delivered for. Much easier to order, open and eat perfect stuff, than to hope for success out back."

He added, "Plus, supposed to piss rain sometime in there, if I heard right. No reason to stand out in that."

Trula remembered to take another tablet as they were finishing up on Alex's ordered-out deli subs. The pill was a little soon after the first one, but Doc Lana specifically said "at lunch" and this was lunch. She was already feeling pretty good and knew that the extra hit would probably knock her out for a nap. With the exercise of walking, fucking and planning, which she never did, she would deserve the break.

Alex said he had shit to do, but he bore up through a crude back and forth on the phone with Bob that ended with Bob saying he'd love to do Sylvia and come to her party too. He said he would bring the pooch as his designated driver home. Alex wasn't sure if that was Rennie's nickname or a real canine; he just shook his head, but got her the other phone numbers before he hung up.

"Back later," was all he said as he got up to leave after working the phone, which meant mostly leaving messages. Nobody actually answered any more. Days-back she would have wondering where he was going and if he really meant he was coming back. Now, she just smiled. Alex had secrets—she found that the mystery made him even more attractive. She told herself that James Bond has secrets too and everyone wants to fuck him.

She said, "Just walk-in if I'm napping. Leena comes home around six, if she comes home, which is rare. But she doesn't parade around naked like us, so she won't mind you just walking in."

He grinned and kissed her before heading out.

Thinking that she had certainly forgotten something, Leena popped back into her head. She had figured that she would need to wait to talk to her, but then remembered that she now had a phone. She punched in Leena's cell number. She was tempted to create a contact, but remembering Alex's caution, she just let it dial.

Of course, she got voicemail. Leena would never answer an unknown number caller. She turned on her most upbeat voice, considering her buzzed state and tried to relay the casual "get-together" plan as clearly as possible. Part way through leaving the message, she wondered if she should be asking for Leena's OK first, but decided to fall back on asking for forgiveness later, if it was a problem. She stopped talking mid-sentence when the beep told her the phone had stopped recording.

She left the little list on the counter with a plan to get to it as soon as she got moving again. Doc Lana said to walk off any extra buzz. She didn't say not to enjoy it first. At some point, she had to head over to Heung's Royal Variety to see what Lotto7 was paying this week. She also wanted a game card so she could carefully enter the winning number before dropping her street drugs. It would be weird doing the whole party twice; painful too with no meds all day, but the pay-off was going to be amazing for everyone. They would all be a lot richer just for being in her life. With that thought, she drifted out on her bed.

### Chapter 10 – Thank OLG it's Friday

Friday was going to be a miserable day. There was no way to avoid the pain and the sharp angles of a drug-free day. The pain would pretend to be manageable at first, but would build with each impolite visit, always asking what the Hell was going on—as in "Where is the goddamn pill bitch?" She knew it would be demanding, made even more insistent by the ready availability of the thing it was asking for.

Demands would change to pleas. "There's a whole pack in your drawer—please go get me one. It'll make it so good for both of us. Just one won't change things tonight, and who said that being strung-out was necessary anyway?"

The question was being presented with different logic every few minutes. How can you expect to act normally and even have people over, when you'll barely be able to stand by then? What do you foresee, some cozy round-the-TV camaraderie, while you go through withdrawal in silence? Never happen. Alex and probably Richard too, won't let it happen. It's a dumb plan unless you go take a tablet right now like Doc Lana told you, just to get you through the start of the day. Skip the later pill if you want, but be a good girl and go get me one right now.

The sharp angles didn't get in on the pushy appeal, they just poked and punched to get her attention. Stand: ouch! Turn too quick: ouch! Look out the window without squinting: ouch! Bump into the kitchen counter....

Her world was loaded with pins and she was the pin cushion. Each jab left a lasting throb somewhere in the middle of her brain or down inside one of her muscles or joints. Sitting quietly calmed the furor, but the extra energy needed to overcome the inertia of stillness made each new attempt at movement more painful than the last. She was a mess and would be a bigger one before this day was done.

Alex slept over but had an early business meeting with one of his employers. She had just nodded, knowing that she'd be better off without him in the morning. He left her sleeping. Trula reminded herself that it wasn't her place to know any more about his business, yet.

They had talked about the near-miss with the drugs delivery. Alex shrugged it off, but she knew that he had taken steps to help move the back door pharmacy under cover and to distance himself from the operation, for now. The narco cops now had their names; presumably the two of them were in a database somewhere by now or up on a detective show cork board, with little coloured yarn lines connecting them back to the kingpin drug lord in Mexico or China. Trula hadn't said exactly why she was insistent, but she got an absolute promise from Alex to stay out of the business for at least a couple weeks. All she really needed was a few days. After tonight, petty drug crimes would be a distant and laughable memory.

She recalled that she leaned on her Tylenol 1's last week with no effect on the reality slip later in the day. They would constipate her and probably fuck-up her liver, but she needed something. She took two with a second cup of instant coffee. She wasn't sure how the combination of codeine and caffeine worked, but she guessed each had some role in distracting the pain receptors in her brain. This combination would have to do for now.

The TV was on the local continuous news channel with the sound turned almost off. Two weeks ago, the lottery jackpot had grown large enough to merit a brief Friday morning segment about the fifty-million-dollar prize that all wished for. Grinning purchasers were shown happily handing over their contribution to the government pot. Every ticket holder and anyone who planned to last-minute purchase was the winner on Friday morning. The dumb logic of lottery gamblers went something like—well, someone has to win, eh? So, in spite of astronomical odds against winning, gullible people stepped up with their five, ten or twenty number picks.

There was a big winner that draw, on a ticket bought somewhere out east. The win was news for exactly one day; nobody had come forward yet. All other players were pissed-off. Even when he or she eventually did, unless the person was notable for some other failing, it would be barely newsworthy.

Down-and-out winners on social support did get special coverage. The story was supposed to make you feel good. Now they could afford to buy the mansion they didn't need and to spread money around their grubbing relatives and certain-to-show hangers-on. Their on-camera imaginings over smokes and coffee made great promotional material aimed at others who couldn't afford to fix their teeth, but could hang in there with their lottery-win dreams.

Limited income retirees with big families were another favourite winner for the camera-in-your-face news channels. Could the millions bring the previously dysfunctional extended family back together? They hoped so, but most knew, wasn't fucking likely past hand-out day.

The in-between week ten-million-dollar winners didn't even rate news mention anymore unless they were from some small town with its own newspaper or radio station. Then, there was a chance for a real, not-cynical, celebration as a nice donation to the Legion or to the local playground project was a positive outcome for everyone. That the winners probably were getting their asses out of there to some warm and comfy place as quick as they could usually wasn't mentioned.

Trula didn't plan to attract any attention whatsoever, except at the mandatory big cheque presentation. She'd hire a lawyer and an accountant in advance and disappear to parts unknown thereafter. Yeah, her family would get some and maybe the downtown mission and the free clinics would get some too, but the rest was going to disappear with her and her small circle of true friends.

She used her new smartphone to check on the actual jackpot amount at the lottery website. Looked like about twelve million. That would do nicely. She realized that she might have to split it with another winner. Their number might be random or it might be the birthdays of six grandkids. Good luck to them. Six mil would be fine. She wasn't greedy.

The rest of the day was to be all about controlling possible screw-ups. She planned to walk to the Variety this morning to buy a couple lottery tickets with a selection card. They'd be a useless waste of a couple bucks, but their purchase would confirm that old Well's machine was working properly and would also confirm that she still knew how to buy a ticket. She figured that she would be nervous as hell later and prone to slip-ups. She wanted to stagger in this evening with her filled-in selection card, hand it and five bucks to Well and then walk out clutching her valid winning ticket. Any thinking or required decisions could fuck it all up. But the trial run was a distraction for late morning. First, she had to actually do some work for the party which, given her deteriorating physical condition, wasn't going to be fun.

Late in the evening on Thursday, Leena indicated that she might show up later for the party as part of a last hurrah in the apartment. That they never had a first hurrah or any in-between hurrahs didn't seem relevant. Trula softened her pitch by explaining that it was open attendance with only about ten people invited and expected to just pass through.

Trula also questioned if maybe Leena wanted to invite a couple people from her work? Maybe there was an interesting guy that she'd like some help with?

"Alex and I could wingman that for sure."

Neither suggestion got much of a response. Her shrug was probably a "no", but Leena wasn't definite about things that made her uncomfortable. Surprisingly, she had taken a shine to Alex, who, in addition to flashing his butt on their first meeting, went out of his way to chat with her and drop the odd soft compliment. He was so good at it. He said that he liked her commitment and obvious success at work. He hated the idea of working for a big company himself, but was glad that she could handle it. He told her that the economy needed what she did. He even knew details about her company without having to run to Google. Leena was impressed. Trula was left wondering what else about him she didn't know yet.

Leena did declare right up-front that she had no time to help get things ready. Helping to prepare stuff would imply some accountability for the success of the party. Maybe because it was Trula's idea, or maybe just because it was a social event, Leena preferred to be hands-off.

But it was Leena's cleaning-up almost every day that made the place half-presentable to begin with. The flat was neat enough for them, but didn't meet requirements for a party with guests. The kitchen and bathroom both needed an actual scrub-down. All of the rooms needed a thorough dusting and vacuuming. This time, that meant moving the furniture to suck up a year's-worth of dust balls. This was heavy duty stuff that Alex said to leave for his return. Trula was happy to agree. The scrubbing would be a big-enough challenge for her. She'd be moving in slow motion with a lot of pauses to recover along the way.

As a start, she filled the sink with soapy water and dumped in the few random dishes sitting around. Using a trick that her brother had taught her when the were teenagers assigned similar duties, she employed the soapy dish water as her source for wiping down all the surfaces above the countertops. She took the rag to each one—stove top, fridge door, cupboard doors and finally all the countertops in turn, with a panting sit-down break in-between each.

It took close to half-an-hour and pretty much blackened the dishwater, but the dishes would get rinsed anyway. Two birds down. The lower half of the kitchen actually required a bucket, with each spot on a cupboard or wall begging triage for whether it was worn paint, was an indelible scar or, last possibility, was actually splashed spaghetti sauce from two weeks back.

She dug out the old sponge squeeze mop and hit the floors next to last. Last of all was a toilet bowl scrub with the dead-soldier final wheezy spurts of found blue stuff. Prior assessment there might have identified ancient stains that weren't going anywhere and just plain worn out porcelain. Regardless of looks, it was as clean as it would get. She considered the bathtub, but prudently decided that closing the shower curtain would work just as well. She was nearly wrecked from the exertion anyway.

After a long rest on the couch, that did nothing for her pain, but at least gave her back some energy, she started out on the two-block walk to the Heung's Royal Variety. She tried to use the sidewalk slabs as her personal labyrinth, concentrating on breathing in on one and out on the next, while pushing the pain down and out of her body. It didn't work worth shit, but eventually she found herself in front of the Variety with a clear enough head to walk through the practice ticket purchase.

"Well" was behind the counter as usual. He was of indeterminant age and, as far as Trula knew, never stopped working. Seven days a week from dawn until 11:00 p.m., he was there. Or his wife was, presumably while he pissed and shoved down some food in back. She never got a name for her in spite of trying to introduce herself.

Well was actually Heung Woo-Jin, but Trula hadn't been able to resist turning the name around Canadian style and nicknaming him Well. To his face, she used Woo-Jin, with appropriate respect for an older guy. He was probably friendly to most everybody, but to her he was as close to a grandpa as she had ever had, even if they could really only speak about fifty words to each other. She didn't speak Korean, so his English had to do.

He winked as he saw her. "Ah, Miss Trula. You be good today?"

She shrugged slowly, to limit her shoulder pain. "Well, Woo-Jin, I've been better. Lots of pain today."

He frowned. "Oh, not so good. Thinking you need some angel dust."

She laughed, "How'd you know that? My angel has to wait until tomorrow though."

He shook his head. "No, no. An-gel-i-ca. Best Korean medicine. Can get you some."

He barked only slightly louder in Korean and his wife came hustling out from somewhere in the back. She obviously knew that English had nothing to do with her, but jumped up as soon as she heard Well change to Korean. They had a back and forth conversation that got fairly exercised, with her eventually departing in a mild huff and Well turning back smiling.

"Wife get for you. Sample. Can get you whole box. Fifty-bucks."

Trula shrugged. Ground up bear dick or whatever the shit was probably worked better than Oxy. But not today, as much as she would like to get some relief, she'd save it for her strung-out kick days to come.

She questioned, "Woo-Jin, I need to buy a Lotto7 ticket for a lucky number. I just fill one number on the card, right?"

He nodded, "Yes, fill number spots all black with pen then machine reads."

He pulled a card from the small rack and handed it to her. She'd done it before but wanted a refresher while the place was empty. Last minute tonight would be nuts, even with a smallish pot up for grabs.

Well handed her a cheap pen and pointed. "You know your special number? Fill in then give back to me."

She hadn't thought about a test number. What the fuck, it was only to try out the machine. She filled in 01-02-03-04-05-06-07. She handed him the card.

Well laughed. "No-no, Miss Trula, you need to pick number that can win. This number never win."

She wrinkled her brow then asked, "Can't any number win?"

Well frowned back at her and shrugged. "Guess so, but never all in row like this. Never happen."

Trula didn't have the energy to argue. She'd have a different number later.

'That's OK. Just sell me that one."

He shrugged. "Machine pick two more for you anyway. Maybe one of them win."

She could see how this could have screwed-up later.

He stopped. "Want Bonus?"

"What's the Bonus?"

Well smiled. "Extra buck for government. Only extra million pot. Don't get you much."

Trula shook her head. The dumb logic of lotteries struck her again. Why play for only a million, when the big pot was ten times that? Like you'd turn down the million as a pittance when you won.

Well said, "Five bucks then.

He inserted the card and the machine instantly pumped out a ticket. There was her dummy number across the top along with a couple of other random ones. It was that simple. She took an extra selection card. She'd fill it in at home as soon as she saw the winning number on TV.

Well wasn't done with her. "Need to sign ticket right now. Very important."

Trula wondered about that. Why the fuck would they need her signature? Was she agreeing to something? Her mind was foggy, but as she still had Well's pen, she scrawled a signature before handing it back.

He said, "Guessin, good luck to you, Miss Trula." He mumbled, "Need lots with that number."

Then back to her, "Want anything else?"

She smiled. "No, that's it."

Well said something in Korean which caused her to tip her head wondering if she should understand it. But it turned out that Mrs. Heung was standing silently behind her with a little folded paper pouch containing her Angelica sample.

Trula took it and bowed slightly. She couldn't speak with her, but wanted to acknowledge the favour and effort anyway. The gesture got a little smile back.

Well waved as she was on her way out. "Try Angelica in tea. Best stuff. Guaranteed. Hope you feel better."

The walk home was no less excruciating than getting there, but now that her plan was coming together, she could think about other things to keep from groaning out loud. She wondered how long it took to get the cash. Probably a few days. She'd still have to work for survival money or, more likely, just hit up somebody for a loan, to be repaid a few times over.

Her next thought—what should she do with the ticket? Once it's worth 12 million, you can't just jam it in a pocket. She regularly lost shit like receipts and gift cards, even when she made a real effort to put them in a safe place and then to remember where that place was. She planned to scream and jump up when her number came up, so she'd have the whole gang to help keep the ticket safe, but then there would be eight different ideas on what to do with it. And what about a thief? If word got out that she had the winning ticket, would her place become a target for some low-life? Each new good thought seemed to come on stage with its own back-up band of bad news detractors.

Once again, she found herself at the end of the walk more or less by surprise. Half-numb from pain and half-stupid from speculative worry, she plodded up the front walk and lifted each leaden foot with a conscious, "Here-we-go," thought to get up the next step. Her phone told her it was half round the day's sunny side or so. She felt like she'd spent a full-day doing painful shit already and still had to hang on for almost another half revolution before she could drop her street pills. She hoped she could spend most of that unconscious.

Alex checked back in by phone a little while after she was in the door. He message said he was still away, but had a plan for gathering the party supplies. He itemized three cases of beer, ice, cups and plates and a cubic foot of bad-for-you snacks. She returned a message telling him that she had to crash, so she'd help later if needed. She already knew that she wouldn't be much help.

Others had sort-of suggested that they would bring food stuff, including a promised meat tray and breads from Rudy, who it turns out has a girlfriend who works in a deli; and a promised blow-your-ears-out hot dip and naan bread spread from Rakesh, who, as expected, did have a houseful of East-Asian cooks happy to show off their talent. Some might even be coming along. Richard said he would just bring a forty for the bar. Bob and whoever he showed up with would probably just order-in a couple big pizzas.

It would all come together. She was whacked. She dug out one more T-1, downed it with a big glass of water and headed for her bed. Just as she was going to go facedown in hopes of sleeping, she shuddered as one last icy thought knifed into her fading consciousness. She sat bolt upright. She shook her head to clear her panic and struggled back to her feet. The bathroom was fifteen feet or so away. In the sand-walking stagger of a nightmare, she worked her way in to the sink and opened the mirrored cabinet. The icy thought was that she hadn't checked in on her pills in two days. They could be gone. Alex and Leena both used the bathroom. Either could have found the pills, recognized that they were shit and thrown them out.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..." She mumbled out loud, talking not to in-control Trula now, but to out-of-control idiot Trula of last week-end.

"How fucking stupid am I? Spend all week planning and hoping, then leave the one thing I need to make it happen sitting out in the open where anybody could take it away."

She stared at the lower shelf where she recalled that she had jammed her blister pack in behind the cold pills pack. No-one had a cold. There should have been no reason to fuck with either pill package. The shelf had only one blister pack. Her fake-Oxys were gone.

A surge of panic rushed back into her head. She could feel her heart rate speeding up and her breathing growing erratic. Her chest felt like it was about to explode. She searched her noisy head for an explanation that made sense and that brought the pills back to her, but couldn't come up with anything.

She screamed, "Where are my fucking pills?"

She tumbled all of the medications and supplies in the cabinet out and into the sink. The pill pack wasn't anywhere.

Her next thought: "The garbage. Somebody pitched them. Fuck, I emptied it. Fuck, fuck..."

She tried to move quickly. She'd tied-up the ears of the grocery bag that lined the bathroom garbage pail and tossed it in a larger black garbage bag in the back shed. If one of her roomies tossed the pack, it had to be there.

She wanted to run out to the shed, but every joint and muscle in her body was giving her a bunch of reasons for moving slowly. In spite of her panic and pain, she still couldn't take a pill. The urge was almost overwhelming as the voice declared her an absolute idiot, not for losing the fake pills, but for suffering needlessly when she had obviously never intended to go through with the lottery scheme.

"You're dreaming all of it because you're in fucking withdrawal. Go get a pill, sit the fuck down and get back to your real life."

She was almost ready to give in. Without the street Oxy there was no point in any of this. No lottery win, no magic solution to all her problems, no payback for the pain and suffering. Her life was improving without any of that. Marginally, yeah, but a week ago she had been contemplating living on the street, maybe sucking dick for drug money and walking the fine line between high and dead every day. Today, she had Alex, she had friends, she had work and she had a legit prescription she could likely afford. It wasn't rich and carefree, but it might be OK. Maybe she had bounced off bottom and was heading back up to the surface anyway?

As she listened to the many voices arguing in her head, she made her way to the shed. The black bag was tied up in knots that she couldn't get open. Knots she had tied with happy gusto an hour ago. An analogue for throwing out the garbage in her life? It fit. Now, as she ripped at the dark plastic, she felt herself slip-siding back to the street. Fuck, who buys heavy-duty contractor bags anyway? Leena, of course. Only the best.

Her thoughts were running south. If life could improve in a week, it could all go away just as fast. Why was Alex hanging with her anyway? Leena had already bailed out. Just one too-high or too-strung-out appearance at one of Bob's moving jobs and she wouldn't be getting any more of those calls. The boys would all move on. She might be remembered as just one more pass-through junkie beyond help. As she finally resorted to using her teeth to create a small rip in the bag, she wondered how long until she was using those teeth to pull a rubber tube tourney around her arm to shoot-up a load of back alley H. Dead wasn't far beyond that.

The bag finally gave in to her hands and ripped open enough to let her retrieve the bright yellow No Frills grocery bag that had, until an hour ago lined the bathroom garbage pail. The pills had to be right on top in the tied-up bag. She really didn't want to go rummaging through a couple weeks worth of bathroom discards.

The yellow bag proved less formidable. She applied the same tearing effort, which resulted in the whole bag parting down the middle, dumping a pile of tissues, Q tips, dental floss, tampon tubes and various wrappers at her feet. A few tightly-wrapped tissue bundles stayed together as they bounced free. Their landlord had warned them against flushing anything but piss, shit and toilet paper. He said that the old sewer pipes were full of tree roots. His polite broken-English warning suggested that even one kleenex could mean a call to the plumber. He hoped that they got the idea that tampons and condoms fell into the same category.

He warned, "Maybe you pay for plumber—lady things or sex things block-up pipe."

They were forewarned and followed the rules. So, the garbage pail got the lady things and the rare sex things, tightly wrapped up to avoid an exposé.

Fortunately for her bare hands, the dumped garbage was already spread-out enough for her to see that there was no pill pack. Her hands stayed clean but her heart sank towards the messy floor. The simple solution had been too simple. Of course, her roomies hadn't tossed the pills. Neither would touch her stuff, even if they somehow saw what the pills were. No, they hadn't seen them; they hadn't even opened the cabinet; the pills had never been in there. Had she only imagined having them at all?

She slouched back into the house, leaving the garbage strewn across the shed floor. Without the tabs, her entire plan was coming apart. No lottery win meant barely enough money to survive, if she could keep working. She knew how unlikely that was.

Sitting on her bed, she forced consideration of an alternate plan. She had a little cash, maybe she could get some more from Alex. She obviously couldn't tell him that she needed it to try to get another batch of street drugs. Even if he gave her the cash, there was no guarantee that any pills she found would be contaminated by just the necessary amount to kick her back. They might be perfectly mixed to do just what they claimed to do. Every other addict would be happy with a nice poor person's high. She definitely didn't need that any longer. She needed the same kicker as last time—near-death, just a coma, whatever. There was no way to know what or how, just that those specific tabs worked.

She needed to talk it out with herself. Speaking out loud might also drown out the chatter in her head pressing its case for abandoning the whole plan.

"I definitely had the tabs. Couldn't have imagined that whole shit encounter with those assholes twice. They must be here somewhere. Even if I can't find them today, there's another lottery each week. Everything just gets postponed. This could still work."

"Yeah and we can have a tab or two to get rid of this fucking pain right now. Let's go for that!" Her needy inner talker was a shithead. It was determined to get a tab, now two for making it wait, so would say anything it could to put her off her commitment to twenty-four hours of abstinence.

There wasn't much left to say in defense of the fading plan. Her determination to make it happen had been based on her belief that she had things in control. Now she wondered about that. If she remembered hiding the tabs but hadn't actually done it, there was a very good chance that she had 'disassociated' as Doc Lana suggested. If she didn't do what she remembered, then she probably did something else that she wasn't remembering. Had the stress got to her at some point and she just stepped out? That might account for the lapse. In this reality, she never had the pills, or at least never hid them.

She stopped on this thought. Never hid them?

She jumped up from the bed, moaning as all her muscles protested, then limped off in search of her backpack. She did remember the thought process for why she was hiding them, but she kept every other important thing in her life in her backpack. Maybe the worry thing was part of the disassociation? Something she had imagined or dreamed but never did, in this reality, anyway.

The backpack was jammed against the couch. When she came in from walking, she stuck her change purse and lottery stuff in with the random junk that somehow accumulated in the big pocket. Losing stuff in there was expected between dump-outs on the bed to clear the garbage. But she remembered putting the fake tabs in the front pocket, zippered in so they wouldn't get lost or mixed in which her other junk. She forgot her aches for a moment and pounced on the pack.

Something felt right behind the faded grey canvas of the front pocket. The zipper always stuck a little; sure-enough it resisted a brute force opening as if to further spite her. Breathing twice and calming her fingers down, she tried again, taking her time to slowly draw the zipper head back. She was rewarded with the ten-pack of fake Oxy. Safe, sound and perfectly imperfect, just as she remembered.

She never stashed the tablets. If she really did all of the things she remembered from the past week, including going to work, heading out with Alex, taking subway rides, doing the doctor's visit and walking back and forth to the Variety, then the super-valuable little pill pack had gone along on each adventure. She could have lost her pack, had it stolen, or worse, been stopped by the cops again and all would be lost. But in the moment, pill pack in hand, she celebrated her own stupidity as a saving grace and was finally able to tell the bitch in her head to fuck-off—the plan was back on.

Chapter 11 – Alex's Day

True to her word, Trula was face down on her bed sleeping when Alex came back in. He briefly thought about waking her to tell her he was back, but figured that she needed the rest. He was well aware of her struggle with dependency and of the hazards lurking for someone needing drugs but not having a safe, secure means to get them. He had been there. He still covered his worst days with an occasional upper, downer or leveller. He became the master of his needs and of his expectations. Drugs were a tool that he chose to employ only when he was in complete control. He hoped to take Trula there one day but also knew better than to ever have any expectations of a druggie.

He arrived by Uber with the beer and other party supplies in the trunk. He carried a credit card that rarely saw daylight as he preferred cash for its anonymity. But Uber needed an account and was really convenient. The shopping trip had been a multipoint affair, as he hailed the car on his exit from the grocery store then stopped at the beer store for his two-fours and a couple bags of ice. Both retailers now delivered, but this service would require additional use of the credit card and was notoriously slow. He kept a folded clip of cash in his pocket for purchases at the counter, so still needed to lug the stuff around. Being car-free in the city meant needing to know options for every kind of trip. He liked on-foot best, so tended to haunt the close, dense locality of midtown. He found that there wasn't ever much of a reason to leave home turf.

His father had once attempted to give him a lot of reasons to want to get out in the world. Coming out of high school, a top student in the courses he paid attention to, he had options with family money behind him. There was a concerted push towards business school. His father bought a house for him and his brother in Waterloo, suggesting that his own alma mater, Laurier Business, was right around the corner.

Alex moved into the house, rented out all the spare rooms and instead enrolled in Fine Arts, still at Laurier. It lasted a year, but he kept the house and made the best of friends out of various characters that passed through. One of them had a pipeline to some fine drugs; pretty soon Alex was dealing to a select local crowd of friends. Unfortunately, one of those supposed-friends got nabbed for possession and set him up to be busted. He was saved from jail time by a problem with the evidence trail that his father's lawyer pursued aggressively enough to have the charges thrown out. The brothers sold the house for a profit and he paid his father back, including his legal fees. He packed up for a couple years of travel to get his head straight

Before departure, his father warned, "You've used your one "get out of jail" card. Don't call me from any foreign lock-ups—I won't take the call."

It was enough of a warning that he kept on a straighter path. He still used a little, but was careful to avoid any situations that risked encounters with the cops. The near-miss last week was a reminder to him to be more careful. He suspected that he was distracted by Trula. He also wondered if the outcome would have been different if she hadn't been there. Probably a lot different.

His father had actually been letting him get being a bum out of his system back then. On his return from wandering, over whiskey, he told Alex and his brother that they were now the co-owners of an incorporated business that ran a dozen fast food franchise locations. Oh, and they also owned many of the strip-malls that housed their businesses along with every other kind of tenant imaginable.

He didn't expect them to jump for joy. Alex's brother Sebastian expected to start a high-tech company after graduation in software engineering. Running donut shops and collecting rent from hair salons wasn't what he had in mind. Alex couldn't imagine any part of being a business owner and wondered if the whole thing was a joke.

Their father laughed at their reaction, saying, "You two should be the perfect pair of proprietors. One knows all about peddling a product and the other is certain that there's a technology solution for any problem. Here you've got lots of weird products and lots of problems. Plus, an eclectic mix of tenants that present their own challenges. Fortunately, you have several good managers already in place; all you have to do is figure out how to invest and not to go broke."

That had been it. It turned out that Seb was pretty good at understanding any kind of business. On occasion, Alex jumped in help solve people problems. He stayed away unless asked to help, but found that he was good at seeing opportunities, so brought more little businesses ventures to his brother's attention. Bob's Moving was one of them. Now, about once a month, Alex put his little incisor denture in place to fill the gap in his teeth, put on a clean shirt and got picked up by limo to attend a board meeting.

He told Seb, "Just call me when you need my signature." His share of profits was automatically and anonymously sent over to a foundation that helped street kids. For Alex, it was his way of poking back at his father, who, although he continually decried his eldest son's wasted life, admired both sons equally.

This afternoon, the lovely Uber driver joked with him about having a party night as she humped one of the beer cases up to the porch. On an earlier day, he would certainly have suggested that she find him later when she needed a break; but now he was focused on commitment to another person, something that rarely occurred in his life. Trula might be a challenge and she might just toss him off in a week or a month, but for now she was the one and only relationship he wanted. He left the invite open—the driver could certainly wander back on her own just to check out the party. It was a free country, but he would be nothing more than a smiling co-host.

He hadn't been too sure about the party plan. Not that there was anything wrong with inviting some folks over for a drink, but the timing had him scratching his head. Trula barely knew some of the rotating group of guys that made up Bob's moving crew and the two of them were only about a week into their real relationship, even though he had known her at the pharmacy. They might be said to have been friends of a sort for a long time. They were a lot more than that now, but couple relationships need time to develop. There was danger in not knowing the other person well enough to avoid putting your foot in it. Plus, Trula had something she wasn't telling him.

He had casually suggested maybe waiting a week or maybe just getting together at a bar. Trula immediately killed both ideas.

She insisted, "I really want to have them over on Friday. Tomorrow."

He offered, "But, might be a little soon and maybe uncomfortable for some of the guys. Not to speak for them, but I know that one or two of them are a little, well, socially, er, limited."

He was trying to come up with the politically correct word for inept. The boys loved working for Bob and he kept everything together on the job, but some of them were only a few sober weeks away from their own problem states. Whether their weakness was drugs or booze, pounding back a few in a potentially rowdy open house party might not be the best way to keep them straight or to ensure healthy long-term friendships.

Bob himself was a complete wild card. He was the best of bosses for the business, but Alex had worked with him long enough to know that he loved letting it loose when he got the chance. His sharp tongue never changed. Mild insults worked on the job, when he is the boss and everyone is expecting their turn in the hotseat, but maybe someone in the group will have a thinner skin after a few beers. It was the kind of thing you worked around when you were understanding friends. It might be playing with fire this early in the game.

Trula shrugged off his cautions. "These guys are all great when they open up. I know each of them well-enough to make them feel both welcome and comfortable. You worry too much. Besides, who knows whether we'll have another opportunity. Not many week-ends left in this place and maybe another date doesn't work for anybody. This Friday is the day."

She had texted out the actual invite as a follow-up to his calls. He was surprised that everyone, including Leena, also seemed to think it was an OK idea. Then everyone said that they would actually come. He had no choice but to spring for the beer and snacks. Trula didn't seem nonplussed that she was throwing a party with about twenty bucks in her pocket. She said that she would pay him back for everything. The expectation of future cash seemed to be part of her determination to go ahead. They were celebrating good times to come when, as far as he could see, the times in the neighbourhood were staying as shitty as they had always been.

Her way of expressing things fascinated him. She told him that her doctor suggested that she 'disassociated', when she didn't like where she was. He didn't know how that worked but hadn't seen anything too strange in her behaviour, particularly now that she was hooked up with the right meds. Still, there was a certain disconnected sense he got from her. It was like everyone else was plugged into a wall outlet and she was working on battery. She didn't seem to have a cord attaching her to a place or a time.

The perception of her freedom from the world had stopped him in his tracks when he finally made eye-contact with her. From that moment, he knew that he had to see if he could stay inside the small displacement of space so evident around her. He was learning that it was her blessing and her curse. The curse part was the pain that threatened to overwhelm all of the wonderful parts of her.

He realized that he had stopped moving mid-kitchen and been lost in thought. Not something he was used to. Strangely, losing himself in possibilities had taken over his normal 'here and now' awareness when he was in bed with Trula. He was no Lothario, but he had no problem forming enough of a connection with a woman to end up in the sack. Those times he focused on making the coupling exciting and enjoyable for both of them. He assumed that the woman felt the same way. He never lost focus or found himself skin-to-skin daydreaming of a future together. Fun. Memorable. Maybe repeated. Maybe friends. It was his formula. Being with Trula tossed that recipe out the window.

He had to keep going. He had committed to vacuuming and to pushing the furniture around to open up some space. He guessed that the noise might wake Trula, but it was late afternoon anyway and she would want to oversee the bar and food set-up for people arriving around seven. Maybe they would go get some supper first. He didn't eat when he had anything else going on and now realized that he hadn't eaten anything all day. Knowing Trula's lack of appetite and inattention to her own upkeep when on meds, he suspected that she hadn't either. Party food would come later, but neither of them needed to lean into some beers on an empty stomach.

The vacuum stank like it had a wet dog trapped inside. He ran it around quickly, then opened the doors and windows in hopes of clearing the stink. He dragged the cannister out to the back shed to take out the bag.

"Fucking racoon; Jesus H, in broad daylight, no-less." He surveyed the mess in the shed before shaking out a new garbage bag to gather the exploded contents of the torn-open one already there. He went back in to retrieve a dustpan and brush to complete the job. It took rummaging through various hallway and alcove closets to find it. Typical of an older house, there were a dozen places to look, each with its own collection of stored junk.

He knew that the girls were leaving this house in the next month. It was definitely one of those places where an absent landlord did the minimum to keep tenants, all the while counting the investment value of a full-size house in the middle of Toronto, no matter how rundown. He didn't invest in residential real estate so had no interest in buying the place. He considered the current market to be in a bubble.

Leena, it seemed, had already figured out her new living arrangements. Trula hadn't discussed her plans, but with so little money, renting again somewhere else nearby was likely out of the picture. He dwelt briefly on the idea of them moving in together. They were compatible enough, but a week was a little quick to jump into coming home to each other's dirty laundry every day. Dating breezed across the surface, barely touching down in the messy waters of 24-7. But he was loving every minute with her and she was a project. He loved a challenge. The woman beneath the mottled veneer of dependency was amazing. Was he just selfishly acting at being her white knight so he could claim credit for her redemption?

His current place would be tight for two, but finding something else wasn't a problem for him. He just preferred to keep awareness of his tucked-away wealth to himself. He could fake coming across a good deal that they could split, then just have the company pay the rent difference on his behalf. It was too soon to suggest it. He had a few weeks to figure it out. One thing he knew for sure was that she wasn't going out on the street. He hoped that she wasn't going anywhere.

His final efforts at cleaning and arranging yielded a presentable living room and kitchen that still looked shoddy in full daylight, but would be just fine in the evening. He guessed that Leena might make a pass-through, just to change or whatever, but really to scope the place and give her approval before disappearing until a calculated return time later. She'd want to hit the beginning of the party but not be the first one here. Would she stake it out at a distance to watch for at least one other arrival? Alex wished that she would just let her real self out, flop on the couch with them and put back a couple beers before anyone else showed up. Relaxed and half-pissed, she might have a really good time. But it was her choice and the last thing he wanted to do was make anybody uncomfortable.

He was now wondering about Trula. He had been banging furniture and varooming the old vacuum for at least half an hour. Plenty of time for her to wake and wander out. He hoped that she hadn't mixed up her meds and doped herself out. But the new doc was very specific. Trula seemed to get it and was committed to leveling out her Oxy dose to just maintenance. He guessed that she was just really tired from her end of the cleaning.

He stuck his head in her bedroom to check her out. She was still immobile and facing away from the door. He cautiously sat beside her and began to gently rub her back.

He whispered, "Hey, sleeper, time to get up and put your face on. Well, time to get up to get something to eat anyway. If your plan was to duck any of the work, you succeeded. All done."

He felt rather than saw her return to consciousness. Her entire body recoiled from his touch as if his hand was either ice cold or burning hot. She moaned and curled herself forward, almost as it she was protecting herself from attack. It took almost thirty seconds of slow-motion movement for her to cautiously explore letting her body come out of the tight armoured shell of her tense muscles. Her groans said that the pain was enough to fill her entire awareness. He could only wait for her to get over the shock of waking and come back to him. Eventually, she rolled her head, then most of her body towards him, but with the clear non-verbal message that she couldn't be touched.

Finally, she brought him fully into focus and smiled ever so slightly to see him.

"Hi." It was all that she could get out for the moment.

"Trula, what's up? Are you in as bad shape as you appear to be? Did you forget your tab this morning? Want me to get you something?"

He couldn't help but fire off questions to try to understand what was happening to her. She should be in great shape, not dying in pain.

She whispered out her answers. "Uh, no. Didn't forget. Didn't take one today. This is me clear of drugs. Other than some Tylenol."

A long pause gave away that even talking was painful. She gritted her teeth, then as if remembering that there was some kind of silver lining, smiled and continued.

"Sorry lover, I'm dying right now, but maybe a hot shower and a coffee. Maybe another Tylenol. Give me a few minutes."

He was confused. "What are you saying? Why would you get strung-out today? Cold turkey is shit and there is the party tonight. Let me get you a tab."

She shook her head, now using his arm to pull herself up to sitting. She needed her feet on the floor. She didn't want to make noise, but each movement needed to get there hurt like hell and produced a moan. Finally, she was upright and sitting on the side of the bed beside him. She concentrated on just smoothing out her breathing. In, out, push the pain down. She had been doing it all day.

He was waiting. There had to be more of an explanation coming.

### Chapter 12 – Leena's Day

"It's not my party, so I won't worry about it." After she said it twice in her head and once out loud, Leena realized that she was worrying about it. "Stupid; let it go."

She was hustling to get out the door by 6:30 a.m., so she could put in a full two hours of work prior to be tied-up in the ridiculous tedium of a third-Friday-of-the-month department meeting starting at nine. Smarter, maybe more confident, maybe less ambitious, maybe just not-giving-a-shit co-workers made use of the dial-in conference bridge to connect from home or wherever they had screwed off to on a Friday.

Leena was one of the minority of managers who made a point of being there and getting up on her feet for her fifteen minutes of update. Others just "mailed it in", which was apparently minimally acceptable, then droned on sleepily over dull charts as a disconnected voice coming out of the conference table box.

The presenter hoped for none, but was required to ask, "Any questions?"

There rarely were any, unless you were trying to hide something. Someone in the group would laser in on the gap—reporting results was competitive. The attempted gloss-over presentation would get a lot more interesting.

Leena had a particularly sharp focus in her questions as she actually paid attention, was well-aware of operational problems ahead of time and liked to make sure that the department head wasn't falling for a snow-job. The laziest of her co-workers hated her for it, as they each had their turn in the barrel at one time or another.

It was a staid old organization, but was successful because they paid attention to details—at least Leena believed so. Her boss usually gave her an appreciative node as the gloss-over culprit twisted in the wind, mumbling excuses, but he rarely offered any further recognition. A near friend peer, who had been around a while, quietly suggested to her that pass-through problems weren't really inside-the-department problems and that the boss might be happier, "unknowingly" moving problems along, flaws and all.

As illustration, she added, "God knows we get enough shit dumped at our door, and no-one ever gets fired for passing it on to us. Mostly, they get promoted."

Leena took the advice to heart and now let some stuff go if she believed another department was more accountable. She stuck to her tasks, which she completed to perfection. Her social status and her effectiveness in the department improved as a result of being more easy-going. Associates actually started including her in off-the-record bitch sessions, with the expectation that she could keep her mouth shut about them upstairs. Or, at least, not reveal her source when she did take the problem and a proposed solution up.

She grinned at the irony of trying less hard and gaining more. To no-one, she said, "Must be Trula's bad influence on me."

She found that she was talking to herself a lot since Trula's drug problem and money problems had become more severe. She regularly had issues to deal with at home that shouldn't be her concern, if she applied the new workplace maxim. Most house issues were the kind of thing that friends worked-out by ignoring—arguments not pursued, slights forgotten, minor sins of co-habiting overlooked.

Ignoring the cause and the impact of the real problem for too long had put Leena in debt, frequently necessitating escapes out of her own home and now, was forcing her to move in with someone she knew she would never like. At least not as she once liked Trula, who she thought she might have loved, were she able to reciprocate. But, now, finally, she had to wash her hands and move on.

The display on her steps-counter wrist device said it was 6:29, so she had to leave. The flat was in OK shape, but far from the condition she would put it in, were it her party. Trula said she would clean it and do all the set-up, which probably meant that Alex would do most of the cleaning and prepping. Leena could have pitched-in, but wasn't at all certain how the actual party would go, so she kept up her internal refrain.

Yesterday she had allowed that a drink with some friends might be OK. Trula was strangely upbeat lately. She obviously found something positive in the relationship with Alex. Her apparent success in getting back on a regular drug regime might be contributing, if it stuck. But her casual assurances about a bright future didn't come from either of those things. Her new part-time job wasn't going to pay for a place to stay and a costly drug habit. Maybe she was just giving up and would go back to her parents? Maybe she already had a deal to move in with Alex? Who knew what was in her head? Too many maybe's made Leena nervous. Just giving-up might be a cause for naïve bliss, but giving-up was dangerous. Helpless people led a miserable life, if they survived.

As she hustled up the block to get to the subway, she had to forcibly shake her head to clear thoughts about the future, about Trula and also about Alex. His quick installation on a sleep-over basis confirmed her heterosexual preference, although the alternative was never really played out. From time to time, Trula's soft touch in passing or her cozy, shoulder-rubbing plunk-down on the couch might have suggested otherwise. Certainly, when drug-addled was only a once-in-a-while state, she had been fascinating to be with. Detached, elusive and, possibly, honestly unable to tell time, her strangeness made her strangely attractive to Leena.

Perhaps Alex had also seen through the busted-up opioid veneer to that person inside. Leena could love him too. Differently, obviously, but without any impeding jealousy. If he was the co-pilot Trula needed to be pull her out of her tailspin, Leena would do all she could to support him. She feared it was too late though. Soon enough, he would probably abandon the downward spinning project with the same exasperation she felt.

Arriving at work happened as it always did through an unconscious clicking off of subway stops far in the background of whatever reading she was doing on her tablet. She was highly attuned to every nuance of entering the workplace and of her personal presentation once she separated herself from the heads-down crowd, reached the building lobby, committed to an elevator and then, emerged energetically onto her floor. No one was ever there at 7:00 a.m., but she planned for an encounter regardless. She had an office, not yet in a corner, but against the window. It was the sole focus in her brisk, bright-eyed march through the forty-five or so steps it took to get to the locked door.

Key already in hand, she let herself in, surveyed the emptied trash can and polished desk, hung up her coat, placed her laptop bag and turned to fully view the rest of the currently abandoned floor. Once she confirmed that no-one who mattered to her was about, she relaxed and flopped into her chair.

The precious hour of uninterrupted organizing time meant that she was a couple hours ahead of her team, maybe a little ahead of her boss and only slightly behind the few real competitors she had, who were doing everything she was, but likely in their pj's, sitting in a home office with a jug of hi-octane coffee.

For now, Leena counted on the slim advantage that regular presence on the floor gave her. She could use all of her senses to gauge the direction of the corporate wind, to hear the first rumblings of coming change and to assess the individual urgency of each demand as it arrived. Plus, being there gave her first call on the scarce specialists and admins needed to get anything done. They could ignore emails and voicemails, but not her smiling face as she stood just inside their precious sixty-or-so square-feet of cubicle. She rewarded them richly for every favour granted with effusive notes to their boss and donuts of all shapes at least once a week.

Her thoughts clicked back to the upcoming party. Not hers, but maybe an unforeseen opportunity. Her newfound connections to more co-workers also meant that she occasionally revealed more of herself in conversation.

She listened to Trula's jumbled voicemail twice on Thursday afternoon to make sure that she got it right. A party tomorrow night. At the house. Trula's new friends coming. Alex looking after food and drink. Leena to come and to bring her friends. To her own house.

It sounded slightly insane, but that was manic Trula. She initially decided she could politely decline and just be out for the night. But circumstances and her more-friendly co-workers intervened at an afternoon coffee break.

She overheard a table conversation. "We're looking for something uptown, maybe a flat in an older house if such a thing ever comes available."

Her co-worker, speaking between bites of a donut, was newly engaged and now looking for a place she could share with her fiancé.

It slipped out—Leena revealed something of herself. She offered, "We have a flat like that. I'm giving my landlord notice. Not sure if he's renting again, but I'll get you his number. Maybe you can catch him before he lists."

Her co-worker jumped at the suggestion. "Wow, that would be great. Is it a nice place?"

She shrugged—what was nice? She responded, "Well, what do they say? It's got character, which means it's old, but everything works and there's lots of space."

The co-worker was excited. "Wish we could see it—can we come around one night?"

The information came out before she thought it through. "Well, tomorrow night there's an open-house last-hurrah party my roommate is throwing. It's drop-in or whatever. Guess you could come over then."

A different workmate piped up, "A party, huh? You inviting anybody else?"

Leena wished that she could backpeddle. "Hadn't planned to. But I guess anybody is welcome if they bring their own drinks."

The personal information slip-up was irretractable and, just like that, the reluctant invite was out of her control.

'Her workmate said, "I'll let the floor know. A party at Leena's place is something they probably won't miss."

She was unsure about the idea. "Uh, OK, I guess. Like I said, it's not my party. No poster, please."

"Yeah sure, very informal. But it is half your place, right? And you're moving anyway. Sounds like a good excuse to tear it up a bit."

Now she was worried. "Uh, no—not that kind of party, I hope. Don't give anyone the wrong impression. Just some folks getting together, quietly."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Good'

"Is Sam coming?"

The question wasn't entirely out of the blue. Sam was Samantha in Research. She was openly gay and about as close to a romantic interest as Leena ever had at work or anywhere else. They had coffees, occasional lunches and, about once-a-month, went out together with a group of activist women who had nothing to do with their work or anything else downtown. That's as far as it went, so far.

Leena had kept it professional, but guessed that her complete lack of interest in any male had given her away on the floor. Or had Sam said something to someone? Having her come to the party might be a next step. And she did have Trula and Alex's offer of encouragement. She was reluctant to extend a special invite, but if one got to Sam as part of a group invite, maybe that would be OK.

"Be great if she could." It was all she said.

Sure enough, Sam called before the end of the day to say that she had heard about the get-together and was planning to drop in if she could get away early from dinner with her family. It was tentative, easily cancelled without fault, and, maybe, one small step up from the "just friends" relationship they now had.

Leena grinned after the call. If the party went as badly as she guessed it might, she would catch Sam and any others at the door and they could all head over to a bar in Yorkville. She had taken that thought along home with her last night, staying as non-committal as she could with Trula.

But this was Friday and the party was much later. She had a whole day of work to get through and couldn't be distracted. It was usually the worst day of the week for getting things done. People disappeared, commitments were easily slipped to "First thing Monday," and the ones who stuck it out were distracted by weekend plans. Leena once enjoyed the break as well and could see herself vegging-out casually in a comfortable home with week-end papers and favourite podcasts. Lately, it had been anything but comfortable at home as Trula bounced between needy and numb. She tried to put it all out of her mind and get down to work, still repeating the fading thought of "not my party...". This day would be a challenge one way or another.

Chapter 13 - Bob's Day

It wouldn't be a stretch to say that Bob was pissed. By ten o'clock he had chased a late-pay customer again by phone and now in person, only to be put-off with excuses about a missing property insurance cheque and a vacationing accountant. The owner just shrugged and said he wasn't aware of the overdue invoice, even though his office had signed the courier receipt for the third copy of it three days prior.

Bob's costs were mostly the cash that he paid his crew, but he had equipment to keep up, licenses and insurance to pay and various under-the-table encouragements needed for assured elevator access, parking priority and referrals from his business buddies. He was a dinosaur in a world of electronic transactions, where money moved a fraction of a second before discounts ended or accounts went past-due.

He preferred cash up-front, but paid-on-receipt invoices were sometimes required. For new customers, cash was normally the only way he would consider working for them. In this case, the desperate customer said insurance would cover everything and he would be paid immediately when they got his mailed invoice. He got that assurance from this same asshole, or maybe his look-alike twin brother, in a dripping, smoky building late in the night. Three months later, he was still chasing fifteen-grand that he very much needed.

Bob was fed-up. "Well, seems I need to get your attention a different way then. How about I park about ten trucks in your driveway and we'll talk about how much of a premium it will take to move them."

The owner was trying to get him to go-away. "Uh, idle threats aren't going to get you anywhere. You'll just have to wait until the accountant is back Monday."

He was very certain and apparently had no fear of a fuming Bob, whose progressively louder voice was now attracting attention across the little front office of the polyethylene blow-moulding factory that pumped out millions of single use containers each month.

They had a minor electrical fire but suffered a lot of water damage to a storeroom. They needed to move stock and equipment on a week-end. A crew of millwrights and employees knocked everything down. Bob got the call from one of his trades buddies to provide moving labour. He was a referral source that Bob trusted, unfortunately.

He should have checked out the company's credit rating; he should have demanded cash; he should probably have told them to forget it. Should-haves didn't pay the bills. His crew got their cash on the spot as normal. He got a bad debt. But he wasn't going to walk away.

He retorted, "Idle, huh. One call and it'll be a farm boys' pick-up picnic right out there where I see your transports moving in and out at what—maybe ten an hour? Sure, you could call the cops to clear us out in a couple hours, but I'm betting the transport guys aren't going to sit and wait. You'll lose your incoming supplies to some off-loading depot and will be left with a dock full of shipments going-nowhere."

The boss blinked as he silently factored the same math Bob had attempted with a little more data to work with. The blink was what Bob was looking for. He still had his cellphone out, but now reached into his jacket pocket with his other hand.

"So, how about I give you the fourth copy of the invoice right here and you tell Suzy the bookkeeper or Sally the office manager or whoever has the chequebook, to write me one right now. It will save us both a lot of trouble."

As the entire office was pretty obviously of East-Indian descent, Bob guessed that there was neither a Sally nor a Suzy, but he didn't have a lot of confidence slagging ethnic names and getting it right. He would have to ask Rakesh for a primer on slutty names for his sort of woman. Or maybe not.

He wanted to move the discussion to a place that this guy could go along.

He offered, "Tell you what; I won't do anything with the cheque until your accountant guy calls me Monday. If he wants to appeal for more time, I'll listen. Seems like you run a good business here. Good reputation too, I'm sure. Be nice to keep it that way instead of having a newsworthy blow-up out front."

He still had the cellphone raised to a ready-to-dial position. He waved it a little to attract the owner's attention.

"Whatdiya say? Simple piece of paper and I'm outa your hair. I really don't want to spend all day here and you need to get back to running the business."

Girish had no idea if this Bob the Mover person could actually call on a pack of pick-up truck drivers to mob his business, but from what he knew, all low-caste Canadian workers drove these trucks and this guy probably had a pretty big crew of them. This Bob probably also knew the police and the tow-truck drivers personally, as they were all very similar looking people. Plus, they spoke a coded dialect filled with the "fuck" word that he had yet to master. His brother was the accountant and was only a phone call away, but asking his permission seemed like a weak thing to do. Of course, they owed the money to this guy. They owed lots to many people. It was a matter of the "squeaky wheel" getting the grease as some Canadian metaphor went. This guy was squeaking loudly and probably not going away.

Garish offered, "Alright, we can write you a cheque dated for Monday, although this is a great hardship for us as our insurance has yet to come through."

Bob stifled a grin and nodded in apparent commiseration. "Well, I understand your difficulty, but my normal billing is cash up front, so I think two months is plenty of time to wait in this case. Maybe you should get a different insurer."

After a few minutes, he was on his way. His first stop was the bank to deposit the cheque. They wouldn't clear it until Monday anyway. If the accountant called, he'd say that the cheque was in the hands of his accountant, who is currently doing five years in low-security lockup, but might be available earlier on good behaviour.

He was heading back downtown when his cell rang. For a moment, he wondered if the mystery moneyman at the factory had showed up and was calling to demand the cheque back. But his display said it was his business and possible life partner, who had just this morning threatened him with the loss of body parts if he didn't collect some overdue accounts for the business.

Rennie could be very persuasive while holding his balls in the callused palm of her right hand. The left, lightly tickling his ass at the time, was much softer as it was normally protected by a custom cabretta leather glove during her workday.

Renata's other business was part ownership of the golf course where she taught women with too-expensive clubs, too-fancy clothes and just too-much money in general, how to play golf well-enough to not embarrass hubby on the course in couples' events. In some cases, the instructions were on how to beat the crap out of the women in the club league, while understanding how to not embarrass hubby by beating his ass in front of his buddies. She always checked on motivation before starting any lessons.

Rennie, to him and most others, was a few years past competitive tour golf, but had applied her modest winnings well-enough to invest in two businesses, one she knew well and one she had to learn. In both, she could still trade on her name and on her several tour victories to attract the right clientele. The golf course investment was an obvious fit—the real-estate business less-so. But she loved to learn and knew how to grind at challenges until she mastered the skills. Both businesses now produced enough profits that she could look to new opportunities.

Bob took some golf lessons from her. He had to admit that her looks in the picture up on the club professional roster were the first attraction. He expected not to learn much, but to enjoy her company a lot. As the head pro, she was pricey, but that's how he liked his women anyway.

He was a determined learner if not a natural player. His ribald self-deprecating humour directed at his failings broke her up. Over drinks, they had a chance to talk business. He had a fledging enterprise serving emergency and specialized logistics needs. He could provide a premium packing alternative for her high-end real estate clients. The discussion led to some contracts and then to an investment by her in his business. Hanging out together eventually led to dating and now to some co-habiting, when they had time. She needed to live close to her main businesses in the suburbs; he needed to be downtown. But sleepovers worked just right.

With two partners, Rennie and Alex, neither of whom was too concerned about maximizing profits, Bob had the opportunity to use the business to provide a stepping-stone for selected employees who needed a different kind of job. He attracted capable people who maybe needed some consideration for their dependency, for their checkered past or for their current need for an 'off-the-books' cash-paying job. Casual labour got a bad rap most places, but in the shadier world of people with a secret, it worked just fine. That Bob also became confessor, coach, counsellor and sometimes mother to various characters was just part of the gig. He paid well-enough for hard work and commitment. For some, it was the stepping-stone to regular work. For some, it was three-strikes and out. He couldn't heal them all.

He answered his phone, "Hi beautiful."

Rennie responded, "So, you finally programmed a ringtone for me or do you answer every call that way?"

He acted surprised, "Oh, it's you. Thought it was my masseuse—the one with the hairy hands and only a little drool. She's a peach."

They were off and running.

Rennie responded, "Well, that's OK then—I like her too. Those big hands make my ass just twitch and jump."

Bob grunted, "Jeez, lady. I'll be needing to expose myself here on the Gardiner to beat off if you keep putting pornographic images in my head."

She laughed, "Just keep it in your pants. You've only got two hands, as I recall, and I'm sure that you're already eating a moving lunch while doing paperwork all over the front seat."

"Well, it is my office. My stingy partners won't let me have a real one."

Rennie knew that she couldn't beat him at this game. "Love to go on with the sparkling riposte my love, but I'm walking out to the range and Kimmie hates to be kept waiting. I was just calling about this party tonight. We actually going?"

Bob never knew if a woman's question was loaded, so approached the answer with caution.

"It's still on, far as I know. Alex poked me this morning to suggest that I bring some Irish whisky. He being too cheap to buy his own. Is it still OK by you?"

She replied, "Sure, Friday night downtown is always good, but I'm not too sure about a house party. I'm shitty at conversation over blasting music. Presumably, we can make an appearance, then bailout early?"

This was the loaded part. He had been enthusiastic about going—having Rennie meet Trula; enthusiasm which Rennie initially appeared to share, but now maybe didn't.

He was happy that it wasn't a complete turndown. He expected it to be a good party. He could play along.

"Absolutely. I'll leave the bottle. Irish exit. We can go find a steak someplace."

"That works. What time, where?"

Bob suggested, "My place, say seven, or I can pick you up at transit, if you want to leg it down."

"Your place for the night works. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Just you. Come grunge. Ripped jeans would be just right for this crowd."

"I'll rip a pair. You sure that we can get out? I'm sensing the potential for a 3:00 a.m. blackout here for some reason."

"Please, I'll be very good. Got a job tomorrow with half this crew. One polite hour max, then we'll let the kids go be naughty all on their own."

For some reason Bob had the thought: famous last words. Was it a premonition?

After he hung up with Rennie, Bob called his contact for the office move scheduled for Saturday. She originally wanted Sunday, but he originally planned to play golf Sunday. Not that he told her that. Now he could sleep-in with Rennie tomorrow and his crew would be slightly less likely to be hung-over a day later. They could fit golf in later.

He made it sound like he had moved heaven and earth to do the job on Sunday, as requested. He then texted everyone that the delay was unavoidable due to customer demands. Some might guess the truth, none would complain.

### Chapter 14 – Countdown

The nearly-antique analogue mantel clock in the house finally got its hands pointed more or less at the six and the twelve. Trula stared at it while she concentrated on not shaking. She always sensed how the earth was moving. Right now, the spinning and arching through space were making her nauseous. Five more clock hours was really a million or so kilometres to go. She felt as if she'd be thrown right off the planet and blown to shreds if she didn't concentrate on hanging onto the moving ground far below her feet.

The spasm started in her gut and rolled up to her jaw muscles before reversing direction and rolling back down her torso and out through her legs. At each point the tightening muscles screamed at her. But she was powerless to stop it. For a moment or two there was nothing, then her stomach clenched and the next round started. It was all she could do to sit still enough on the couch not to attract Alex's attention yet again.

He was a little freaked-out as he knew exactly what she was going through and also knew that the cure was right in her bedroom. Twice already, he got the pack of Oxy and tried to get her to take one. He held it on front of her. Her barely coherent inner voice pleaded in unison with him, "Please take a pill. Do it for both of us."

She couldn't tell him why she needed to be strung-out; she was barely holding it together as the physical and mental struggle got worse. Each time the voice pleaded she shook her head with greater determination.

She wanted to scream, "Fuck-off and leave me alone." But saying nothing hurt less.

The T-1's were working the tiniest bit—putting her in a fuzzy cloud, but at least taking the ragged edge off the pain. She knew that she had to get through the party, then somehow get in front of the TV for the draw report. Then the TV had to work and she had to capture the winning Lotto7 number in her head and hopefully immediately on paper so she could go over and over it. She couldn't carry a note back with her on the fallback, so her memory had to be perfect. The task seemed insurmountable.

She planned to set the PVR to record the newscast to be absolutely sure that she could capture the number. Why she was watching a draw number read over and over would beg some explanation. But, fuck-it, she was acting looney enough all day that one more quirk would just add to the cuckoo scoresheet.

Finally, after all that, she could beg off to go take her meds. The addicts and former addicts in the crowd would be relieved of their sympathetic pain on her behalf. But it would be the street pills she would go for. Hopefully, without Alex hovering beside her.

If her plan worked, she'd come back to reality just about now, when the clock hands would find six and twelve again. She didn't know how she would turn the earth backwards in space, but if it happened once before, it could happen again. She was counting on it. She was also counting on feeling much better at her party the second time around. As soon as she got back from Heung's with her guaranteed winning ticket, she could let it all go and get really high. The prospect of that relief would have to be enough to get her through the next four or five hours.

Alex was fussing about. He set up some stuff for the bar and for a snack table, but was mostly preoccupied trying to figure out what was happening with her.

He appealed once more. "Trula, you're sweating and shaking. I can see the pain rolling through you. You can barely sit up for the spikes in your muscles. Don't get why you're doing this? Cold turkey is nuts alone in a jail cell or strapped to a hospital bed, but why tonight when this place is going to be full of jolly people? Well, they'll be jolly until they get here and realize that there's a lady dying in the bedroom. You can't possibly want to do this."

She tried a smile, but it was pretty obviously forced. Short of the truth, there wasn't any explanation that made any sense. She held up a couple fingers, indicating that she planned to speak. It took her a few seconds to get the shivers out of her throat. Her voice, when it finally came out, was quiet and hesitant.

"I'm sorry Alex...you're being so kind. This is something I need to do. Tonight...yeah. With everybody here. For a reason. It will make sense later. For now, I have to avoid any meds."

She half-smiled to cover a wince and looked him straight in the eyes before continuing, "I'm not quitting. This isn't cold turkey...anything. I just need a full day off the meds to solve a problem...to be ready for something else. It's mystical. It makes no sense, so I won't try to explain it. I'm so sorry. I thought...that I could handle it better."

Her voice trailed off—the apology only came out as a whisper. Alex was left sitting beside her, confused and now, a little irritated. Her explanation sounded like she read some social media post about turning off lights to save the earth.

He imagined the pitch, "Turn off your drugs for the world day of suffering to save the whales."

It was crazy enough to fit right in with most of the idiocy spread on social media. He couldn't believe that Trula had bought into it. He searched his head for a solution. Could he call her new doctor? Maybe the back door druggists had some idea for an intervention? Maybe Larvie had seen it in his PTSD crowd? Was this how someone acted before she killed herself? He was pissed that he couldn't just step in to fix it.

For a few minutes he considered what he might be able to do by throwing money at the problem. Would ten-grand get the right specialists here on command? There had to be such people. Fuck the party—maybe he should just pack her up in a private ambulance and take her to the best clinic in town. Doctors in Canada weren't supposed to act differently when offered a whole lot of money, but he knew that was BS. Enough cash and even the most principled MD would agree to step in with a quick shot of morphine or something to save one reluctant girl.

The problem with that line of thinking was that she wasn't incapacitated. She didn't want a solution. She would tell anyone arriving to help her out to fuck-off. As they said at the detox clinic he once attended, going off drugs doesn't kill you. It's the brutal pain that makes you want to kill yourself. He had to prevent her doing any harm to herself.

He decided that he would stay right by her side until she gave in. He wouldn't leave her a minute alone until she took her pill. It was all he could do. The gang would need to understand that she was sick and that he had to look after her. It would have to be OK.

Leena surprised both Alex and Trula by coming in around 6:30. Coming home while preparations were still underway might be taken to mean some slight interest in how the party went. Alex didn't care one way or the other why she was there, he was just glad for another voice to join the appeal for some sense out of Trula.

She stopped halfway to her room when she made out that Trula was unwell, curled up on the couch. Leena knew what strung-out looked like. She was Trula's only support during a couple feeble attempts to kick her habit. She'd also seen some nasty days, when Trula was just out of pills and desperate. Her ill condition at this moment was confusing.

Still looking at Trula she asked, "What's up?" She expected Alex to answer.

The question hung in the air between standing Alex and supine Trula. He looked down at her to see if she was up to answering but got only a slow-motion shrug etched in pain.

He finally offered, "Trula has decided to skip her meds for the last twenty-four hours and is suffering a lot for it right now."

He paused to check if Leena understood what that meant.

Leena wrinkled her brow and looked to Trula for an explanation. She knew exactly what state she was in. Why she was that way was the question, as she was certain that Trula had a brand-new prescription only a couple days old.

Had she sold the fucking pills? Was this one last attempt to sabotage whatever good feelings they had left? Should she, could she, call Sam and head her off before she came over? The questions lined-up and marched through her head. Trula wasn't able or maybe willing to answer any of them.

Leena appealed to Alex, in irritation. "No shit. Why are we doing this tonight, with lots of people heading this way, maybe right about now? Are we cancelling?"

Alex answered for her again. "She says no. Apparently this is some mystical cure, I guess, that she's cooked up. She wants everyone here, as witnesses to the magic, maybe? I can only guess at that as she won't explain. I'm sure she'll work up enough strength to tell you what she told me, but even after you hear it from her, I guarantee you won't be any less confused."

He turned and walked into the kitchen, obviously more than a little pissed-off too.

Leena sat down carefully on the edge of the coffee table, close enough that she could gently put a hand on Trula's shoulder, but not so close that she would upset the protective shell her tight body was attempting to maintain.

"Trula, can you talk to me? Should we be doing something? Calling for help, maybe. Did you sell all your pills? Can Alex or I go to get you more?"

Trula forced a smile in response to the idea that she had somehow cashed out her stash of pills. That's what Leena would think, of course. God knows she had seen weird behaviour before. Trula behaving irrationally to get money to buy drugs. But, the idea of doing the opposite, of intentionally cashing out her drug supply was so unlikely that it was actually funny. Some day maybe she'd toss them—but sell them? Never happen.

She struggled to sit up. It was a tough pull that required every bit of energy she had left. Once upright, she consciously shook off the pain and fuzziness. With a couple deep breaths, she thought that she had enough control to talk to Leena.

She whispered, "I'm sorry Leena. Knew that I would be hurting, but not this bad. I'm hoping that this will pass and I can at least get off this fucking couch."

Leena nodded, but still didn't have an answer.

"So, was I right? You don't have your pills?"

Trula smiled weakly. "No, they're right where they should be. Alex brought them out a couple times trying to get me to take one. Can't...not yet anyway. Later this will all be over. It will be OK. I just need to get through it. I'm sorry. The party has to go on. I'll just hang back and hope the Tylenols get me through it."

She paused as if considering what to say next, but then turned back with a panicky look. She waved her hands as if trying to fly.

"Have to move. Gonna barf."

She would need help to get up and to get to her bed. Leena doubted that she could handle the weight on her own if she collapsed.

She yelled, "Alex...come over here, quick!'

Alex came back on the run. He wasn't used to any kind of outburst from in-control Leena.

"What?"

Leena took one of Trula's arms. "She says that she's going to throw-up. We need to move her to the bedroom. I'll get the bucket."

Together, they lifted Trula as gently as they could and walked her into the bedroom. After she was sitting on the bed, Leena ran to the shed to bring back the bucket. By the time she returned, Trula was lying down.

Alex took the pail and set it beside the bed. "It passed. Probably won't be the last. She says that she's just going to rest here."

They left her and went out to talk in the hall. On the bed, Trula found another small smile. So, Alex would give her some space if she was resting. Later on, that would be important.

Leena asked, "What the fuck? What should we do?"

She was normally on top of things and in-charge, but in matters of addicts and dependencies, she only knew what she had seen. She hadn't seen anything like Trula's crazy scheme before. She wondered if Alex had.

He responded, "I don't know. She seems determined. I don't get it either."

Alex knew that she would survive. If she was being honest, she would give in to her pills later. The party could happen in the next room. They could just say that she took ill. People would be disappointed, but the party was just a drop-in anyway. They could come and go. Trula might have a better explanation later—he decided that he could wait.

"We can go ahead with things. There's no danger in what she's doing, just a lot of unnecessary pain. I'll keep a close eye on her. Some of the guys coming over have experience with bad reactions and depression. Maybe they'll have some ideas. Bob may just come in and tell her to get the fuck up and get drunk with him."

He laughed. "That might work actually. Maybe we should stop fussing over her and just get a little drunk ourselves? Beer?"

They both shrugged and headed for the kitchen.

As might be expected of guys with few regular party invitations, Rakesh and Rudy showed up early. Rudy brought a female companion, who spoke less English than he did, but looked like she knew how to party.

He introduced himself to Leena, adding with his thumb, "My cousin—Rita."

Had Trula been up, they might have gotten more info in French, but as it was, the only additional information he offered was, "She's permanent—has car."

To Leena, who was meeting both of them for the first time, the added information suggested the only reason for Rita being here was her ability to drive and to present a valid immigration certificate, should the need arise.

Rudy was clearly a hesitant guy in a social setting, but Rita wasn't cautious at all. They both carried a bottle of wine; Rudy set his on the counter; Rita had hers cracked and was pouring a plastic cupful before the introductions were finished. She nodded to what Rudy said, but showed no signs of speaking English other than "Hello." Leena logged that as a funny thing for a permanent resident. She suspected that it wouldn't be the only strange thing about this "under-the-radar" crew.

Rakesh arrived unaccompanied, but he carried a cardboard box filled with packs of prepared food. The aroma hit everyone else in the room as soon as he entered. Curry, ginger and turmeric were the strongest among many, although the savory combination defied disaggregation. He smiled as each nose caught the aroma and faces followed his progress into the kitchen.

After introduction to Leena, he said, "My family has several excellent cooks, each of whom has added a little of our country to the very nice goodies I bring to your splendid home."

He set the box down and began removing dishes of dips and fillings for a huge stack of naan bread.

He continued talking. 'I am hoping that the food is not too spicy for your tender pale tongues."

He gently poked Alex as he laughed at his own joke. "Perhaps Mr. Alex, you should switch from beer to milk to save yours."

Alex stayed near the bedroom but came back into the front room as each person arrived, spending just a few moments before heading back to keep an eye on Trula. He had no doubt that the place would start jumping once Bob arrived, but at the moment it felt disjointed, with Leena trying her best to connect to the strange moving-crew members.

Leena's office crowd began arriving around eight. Much to her chagrin, a half-dozen poured in, before either Sam or her invited lodging-seeking friend arrived. Considering her stated prerequisite for attendance, all brought at least some beer, with several packing an assortment of coolers and even the odd bottle of liquor. Leena tried to make introductions, but finally gave up and just said, "Make yourself at home."

Sam arrived about the same time as the apartment-hunter couple and another bunch of workmates. She came alone and brought along a bottle of wine that she knew was one of Leena's favourites. The room was already hopping, so she entered cautiously, seeking out Leena first with her eyes and then saying hello with a long hug, once they closed the distance through the small crowd.

"You made it. Dinner go well?" Leena said. She was very happy to see her, but knew that she might now face the dilemma of coming out to Trula and Alex, who until this point would probably have guessed that she was just a shy hetero. But she didn't want to get ahead of herself.

Sam shrugged. "As well as a family dinner ever goes. I have a sister who knows all about me, but parents who still think that one day I'll drag in a male something, anything, as long as it can procreate. They really want grandkids."

She laughed as someone handed them each a plastic cup of somebody else's box of bargain wine. "Can you imagine me with a baby? Talk about a lifestyle change."

Leena knew that the booze was quickly going to make any serious discussion unlikely.

She touched Sam's arm. "I can, now that you ask. You have great mommy written all over you; you just don't want to give in to joining the diapers and minivan crowd."

Sam looked carefully at Leena. She had the same thought about where the party was likely going.

She asked, "And I suppose you do see yourself going there?"

Leena grinned. "Daddy maybe. I could drive a van."

They both laughed and headed off arm-in-arm. Leena had to introduce Alex to Sam and check if the wingman offer still stood.

Trula managed to maintain consciousness, just at the edge of dozing off. She feigned sleep a couple times when Alex came back into the bedroom. Eventually he gave it up and just hung out in the front room near the hallway. She could hear many voices now and guessed that Leena's casual comment about a couple people dropping over had once again understated her real popularity to avoid disappointment, if nobody showed.

She managed to keep down a couple more Tylenols and was actually feeling slightly better. She remembered a week-ago being in more or less the same shape and hauling her ass out to the coffee shop to find some meds, any meds. The steady dose of Oxy for the last few days made this self-imposed turkey icy cold. She was surviving it only by telling herself that it would all be over soon. Just a little way to go and she could rewind this horrific evening.

She considered that she would need to be up and in-control before the lottery draw time, which she couldn't keep straight. It was somewhere just ahead, but the digital alarm radio now glowing in her darkening room didn't help her much. She saw a nine. Once she saw a ten, she had to get up.

Bob and Rennie arrived with a bang that might have been his truck backfiring. They hadn't expected this big a party. Bob was pleased—Rennie wasn't. He carried his forty of Jamieson like a halfback going for the endzone. He charged through the crowd of people he didn't know, reaching Rudy and Rita, who were casually holding down some kitchen counter space, while Rakesh, now wearing a flowered apron of Leena's and managing the party's entire food and beverage service, skittered around the rest of the kitchen.

Bob stopped his rush when he got to the boys. "Well, can't say I'm too surprised. Our little Energizer bunny is hard at it while the Gypsy parks his ass and hammers back Stoly's and Buds. How the fuck are ya, boys? And who is this, Rudy my man? You are definitely moving up in the world if a classy lady like this is sharing butt-space with you."

Neither of the boys said anything. They knew that Bob needed his entrance soliloquies to burn off his own nervous energy. Rudy grinned. Rakesh cast a sideways glance as he reorganized the spicy dips and various bowls of Canadian crap foods one more time. Rita just nodded. Compliment acknowledged.

Rennie followed in the path that Bob cut, but took time to smile and say hello to people as she went. Bob had provided the minimum required information about the party and about Trula, who he said was pretty special. He said that there was a roommate without offering any additional information, so she didn't know if she was looking at Trula, at her roomie, or at anyone else special as she crossed the room. A different real estate agent might have seen this young crowd as a room full of potential clients. Rennie guessed that they were all many promotions and many years of mortgage poverty away from being in her target clientele group. So, she was just here to be nice and to keep a leash on Bob.

Rennie knew Alex was here somewhere. He had called her after Bob said that "they" were coming, with a caution about passing on too much information about "the business" to Trula. He said he was working on explaining it all to her, but not just yet.

He explained, "Trula is working on some challenges right now. She needs a friend, not a benefactor. Due time, I'll let her know more, but right now we're just enjoying finding a new path for her, together."

Rennie wouldn't have needed the warning except for the short-notice party invite and Bob's immediate decision to attend. She had considered sending him on his own, but that had its own risks. Bob did tell her one thing that he and Trula had in common, apparently—time was irrelevant to both of them. Proposing staying only an hour meant that they might get out in two of three. On his own, Bob would close the place.

Alex appeared out of a doorway across the room. He heard Bob, even over the din of the room. He looked over and smiled ever so briefly at Rennie as he worked his way over. The moving company crew had the kitchen pretty much staked out. They were expecting his normal happy greeting and Bob was ready to do battle with puns and wisecracks. Alex's unhappy face shut that down. Something was obviously wrong.

"Hi guys, glad you could come." He paused, taking careful stock of how to let them know what was bothering him.

"Sorry, Trula is a little under the weather. She crashed early to see if she can get over it—hope she'll get up if she feels better. I'm keeping a close eye on her, but think she's sleeping right now."

Bob knew that Trula depended on pain killers. Alex had been honest about her limitations before he brought her into the crew. He raised a questioning eyebrow to Alex, which didn't get a headshake "no" in return. He guessed that the under-the-weather problem was a drug problem. This was a concern.

Alex joked a little with Rudy and Rakesh, then gave Rennie a quick cheek kiss and thanks for marshalling Bob.

He turned to Bob, but pulled him a little away from the group.

Guessing, Bob asked, "This the kind of illness that comes in pill form?"

Alex shook his head. "Yeah, but not what you think. She's been working towards a managed winddown with her new doctor. Everything looked great. She was bright, happy and doing well. You saw her."

Bob nodded, assuming that the next thing he would hear would be about a sudden relapse and maybe a bender. God knew he was susceptible to those himself. Rennie knew it too.

Alex anticipated his thought. "It's nuts, but suddenly last night she decides to go cold-turkey. She just stopped all her meds. It's not what anyone should do. Her body went into pain overload. She's determined to ride it out for some silly reason."

Bob blinked and considered for a few seconds before breaking into a big grin then an out loud laugh.

"You sure that she's not pulling your leg? Never heard of an addict, forgive the term, ever not takin drugs that are right there for the taking. Trudy is way too smart to fuck-up on something like that. I bet she's playin a game to get your sympathy on somethin. Or maybe just fuckin with your head. Anything she really wants from you?"

Alex shook his head. "What? No man—she's really strung out. I've seen guys in lock-up going through this. It's definitely withdrawal—pain, shakes, hot and cold. She's curled up in a ball in there."

Bob nodded, still smirking. "Sure, that's exactly what you'd expect to see, right? She's been there before, right? Knows what it's like. So now, she's got meds right here but is puttin herself through it voluntarily. Sorry, just not believable."

Alex could see the merit in the argument. "Guess it's possible, but what the fuck for?"

"You sure there's nothing she wants from you?"

Alex now laughed, "Naw, nothing except maybe a place to live, food on the table, employment, sex, drugs...actually just about everything right now, I guess."

Bob nodded, "See, lots of reasons for a little sympathy-play. She wants you on the hook. Promises you'll make, if she'll give it up, that sort of shit. Let's go see if she'll pop up when we call her bluff."

He spun and headed towards the bedroom.

Alex chased after him. "Bob, Bob...no wait. She's really done in, let me go first."

But he was gone.

Alex quickly followed. Rennie followed him. Rudy, Rita and Rakesh didn't know what was happening, but followed too. If there was going to be a rousing party in the bedroom, they were all going.

### Chapter 15 - Up and Atom

Normally, people don't crash into a lady's bedroom without at least knocking, but as this was a house party and the bedroom was part of the house, just about everybody did, led by Bob, who didn't slow down to knock. Rakesh hung back waiting for an all-clear. He had seen men shot for bad manners in someone else's house.

Had Trula still been down and out, they would have found her in a lump that no amount of encouraging, goading, pleading or prodding would have moved. But what they now found was the lady herself up and about, fully dressed in party togs and just touching up her normally-forgone make-up in the dresser mirror.

Alex arrived second, but was the first to express any surprise. "What the hell—you're up?"

Trula forced a nearly-natural smile. The pain in her body had levelled-off with the help of her T-1's. The aches of withdrawal always came in waves. She hoped to ride out the calmer retreating water on the ragged shoreline for at least a clock hour before the next breakers of pain arrived. She also knew that she had to take control soon if she was going to pull-off her casual click on of the TV to watch the numbers.

"Me, sure, up and about. Sorry about the early absence, but getting some rest helped a lot. Guess I just went at getting things ready a bit too hard."

She grinned at Alex. "Of-course, my darling caretaker here probably overstated my incapacity. Nothing that a pill and a couple farts couldn't fix. Gas pain is a bitch."

That got a laugh out of Bob and a grin from Rennie and Rudy. Rudy wasn't sure what the context was, but "fart" was one of those words that transcends languages. He said something to Rita, who then joined Bob in laughing out loud, both already helped by a fair amount of booze.

Bob winked at Alex and said, "See, I was pretty sure that no bug was going to keep Trisha down. She's tough as shit but still a big softy, right?"

He leaned in her direction, opened his arms and started to come in for a big hug. Trula saw it coming and neatly sidestepped to take one arm and steer him past her with an elbow bump.

She shook her head. "Whether the bug got me or not, I'm not going to spread what I got around. We've only got one toilet. I'll skip the hugs and kisses, if that's OK?"

She was vertical, had a fixed look of good cheer pasted-on and figured that she could navigate the road just ahead. But getting squeezed wasn't part of that plan. Particularly not a bear-hug from Bob.

He looked disappointed, but shrugged. "Fuck-it, lets go get some drinks. It's been many long minutes since I downed the last one."

The gang all rolled back out, except for Alex.

He said, "I'm guessing that you're putting on a pretty good act for the crew. Your smile is a little crooked. You sure that you're OK with bein up? They'll get it if you just bail out, every one of them has been in pain sometime."

She could finally let the smile fade. "I only need a little more time, then I can catch up on the Oxy and be a much happier camper. I can handle fake-smiling a little for these guys. They've been there for me—guess I figure I owe them the effort. I'll explain it all later when I'll be feeling better."

He would have loved to hug her, but understanding her fragile nerves settled for touching her arm. "Hate to tell you, but there's about twenty other people out there. Most of Leena's office showed up. They likely won't hang around, but right now, it's a little nuts."

Trula shook her shoulders out to kill a spasm. She lifted her chin. "If being a party girl is what it takes, I can play the role right now. How about a double something to add to my non-narcotic anaesthetic? Just a couple hundred thousand miles to go."

Alex tipped his head; he knew that she measured time passing as vast distances covered, but she had never fully explained how she perceived that the orbiting and spinning earth was being thrown through physical space at great speed. As far as he could tell they were standing still. And what was special about that distance? He got that something was supposed to happen, but had no clue what it was. It was his turn to shrug, once more.

They headed out together. The loud front room absorbed them in a fuzzy blanket of sounds and smells. It took every once of her control not to barf as she scanned the room full of strange faces. Leena would have told her a few people might drop-in, had her return from work found Trula up, happy and ready-to-party. As it was, she had barely seen the retreating, very-ill Trula off to bed and had no chance to fill in any information.

Nobody, except Alex, and now Leena, was actually paying her any attention when she came out. Most of the crowd didn't know her or have any idea how much of a challenge each step was posing. From the expression on Leena's face, it was pretty clear that she wasn't about to start introducing the room. The one person she was close to eventually did follow her eyes and pick out that a very ill-looking woman had just appeared behind the raucous other gang of people, which was Alex's crew. Trula could see her mouth the question: "Is that your roommate?" to Leena, but over the noise of twenty people talking and unrecognizable thumping music coming out of somebody's little Bose box, the questioner's words and Leena's response were inaudible.

She needed to sit. That decision meant forgoing the kitchen encampment of her crowd and seeking out a spot on the currently occupied couch in the middle of Leena's crowd. She leaned that way and both Alex and Leena got the idea. Alex caught her elbow as she was about to collapse on route. Leena hastily broke off from Sam and moved deftly to evict a couple current couch occupants so that Trula and Alex could sit. She leaned in to see what was happening, as Trula clearly didn't look fit to join the party.

She asked, just loudly enough for the two of them to hear, "Are you OK now? Sorry, but you still look like shit."

Trula forced the smile again. "Yeah, thanks for noticing. Guessin, good enough. Have to be. Can't be the life of the party face down in there." She gritted her teeth into a pained grin and tipped her head back toward the hallway to the bedrooms.

Alex, beyond Trula, shook his head slightly as his answer to Leena. He didn't really agree, but had been swept along by Bob urging and Trula's apparent determination to ride this detox out, sitting-up in a noisy, frenetic and, increasingly, smelly room, as perfectly-legal joints were being passed. The giggles were taking over the room.

Trula considered if being stoned on pot was allowed in her plan.

Bob answered one question, whether a stiff drink was a good idea, by arriving at her side offering a Jamieson and ginger that was mostly Irish whisky. He squeezed down beside them and offered a toast to being upright.

He offered, "Now, we didn't discuss the why's and the where-fors back there, but I'm betting that you've got some good ones. Trouble is, tonight the place is jumpin and the boys are lookin for some leadership on this job. Ol' Larvie finally rolled in, so the crew's complete. Best news of all, our job for early tomorrow is now for early Sunday. So, there's just no reason not to let it all hang out tonight."

He grinned at her and winked, then downed his entire glass in one swallow. "Whatayasay Terry, let's dance!'

Trula grimaced at the attempted humour, but took a big swallow of the stiff drink. She waved him off toward Rennie, who was slowly shaking her head across the room. But she was sort of smiling too. Bob was the guy you wanted at your party on every night except the one when you were in the throws of nasty narcotics withdrawal.

Trula quietly shook her body and took a deep breath. Could it be that she was actually feeling better? She decided that both booze and pot were allowed, figuring the nasty jolt of the street drugs would overpower everything anyway. She was only a little way away from ending the pain and repeating the night in a lot better shape. Her only problem now was how to get this crowd to shut the fuck up for the five minutes she needed to catch the numbers on TV.

The solution came from an unexpected source in the form of the munchies and the savoury spread laid out on the kitchen counter. Rakesh's fiery dips were entirely delicious, but also entirely foreign to the tender insides of the office crowd. As sudden dashes to the one-and-only toilet started, most decided that they should take their flaming asshole home to more assured access and to more sound and aroma-proof surroundings.

Leena found a way to ease each groaning partier out without dwelling on the gas bombs being left behind. Monday, back in the office, all would be forgotten, or at least not talked about. Fortunately, neither Sam nor Leena indulged in either the pot or the pots of food, so soon-enough the gathering was just as Trula had first imagined it. Just the iron-stomach moving crew with friends, Alex, Leena and now, Sam, who was very obviously the person that Leena was not-so-secretly in love with. It was the exact crowd she wanted around her when she sprung the winning lottery ticket. She only needed to turn back time a few hours and do this whole thing again. A world with no problems now seemed tantalizingly close. She decided that she could do it. It was almost eleven by clock-time.

At the 11:11 display on the cable box, she decided that she couldn't wait any longer. The lottery number was part of the local news that came on near the bottom of the clock hour, but she couldn't take the chance that it would be read out early. She was numb enough from Bob's whisky refills, and a couple small tokes, that she could pretty much just sit still and smile.

She spoke up over the various conversations going on in the room. "I need to turn the TV on."

She had to say it three times, each with more volume, until everyone in the room stopped talking and looked over to her.

She repeated again. "The TV. Can someone turn on the newscast?"

They were all confused. First, that she had suddenly come fully back to life and yelled out loud enough to hush the room, then at her desire to watch boring news when half-looped.

Alex finally responded. "Uh sure, we can do that. Any channel in particular?"

She shook her head. "Just the one it's on. The one you watch news on, right Leena?"

Leena nodded. "Guess so, sure, always the same. Channel nine locally or 1205 or something on the box. Should come on there. I never change it."

She hesitated, then continued, "Is there something happening that will be on the news that you want to see, Trula?"

Trula figured that they would all humour her and let her watch, but now also saw an opportunity to provide them with an explanation for her strange behaviour all day. She could make-up a story.

"Well, yeah, the thing I need to see isn't actually news. It's the Lotto7 number."

This caused a few more puzzled looks, but also got a few shrugs. There were some lottery players in the room.

"Thing is, the number is what my day-long suffering has been all about. It's hard to explain, but yesterday I was at Heung's Variety and Mrs. Heung gave me an ancient Korean remedy that she assured me would change my life. She said that to make it work, I needed to sacrifice something entirely necessary to me for a full day, then at the end of that day my life would change. The fucking potion just about gagged me, but it also gave me a lift like I haven't experienced in a long time. I asked her what the change would be and she said it would be what I needed. Guess it's no secret that I need money, a place to live, to get off my meds, maybe have someone special in my life." She smiled at Alex but didn't dwell on the last item.

She was on a roll. "Anyway, I figured most of that stuff would fit perfectly inside a little lottery win. So, I asked her if I should buy a ticket. She said maybe yes, then said that my chance of good fortune was entirely dependent on my commitment to my sacrifice."

Trula shrugged and continued, "Well, going cold-turkey for twenty-four hours was about the most miserable thing I've ever done. Hope that was enough fucking commitment alright. Good thing that she didn't say two days, I wouldn't have made it. But I bought a ticket and now only need a couple numbers to come up to put a few grand in the bank. Kind of a joke, but what the hell, nothing really worth doing should be easy, eh?"

The room groaned with her—some laughed. Bob was pissing himself. For Alex and Leena, her admission was confirmation that Trula was entirely whacked, but at least she was acting for what she thought was a good reason. Alex shook his head. No-one else he knew would go through that kind of pain for any reason, let alone for a superstitious incantation from some strange old witch. He had been pretty close in his first guess, but felt no satisfaction.

Nobody had moved. Trula repeated, "So, someone please turn on the fucking TV."

Alex found the remote and confirmed with Leena that the power button would do it. The TV blinked to life. The local newscasters were still getting through the various murders, highway crashes and other mayhem of the day. They hadn't missed the numbers.

Trula struggled to her feet and headed towards the bedroom. She almost forgot, but then turned back.

"Hey Alex, punch the PVR button, will you? I'm half-pissed and most of you are entirely loaded. None of us will get the number straight the first time. I plan to rewind and celebrate a few times. I'm going for my ticket."

She figured that clutching her dummy morning ticket would complete the ruse. She could feign confusion and ask for the number to be rewound and maybe paused on-screen. Then she would need to memorize it as she apparently checked her ticket. Saying it out loud a few times would do it. She'd admit that she hadn't won, excuse herself in disappointment, then head back in to drop her illicit pills. It would all be over.

Alex had followed her into the bedroom. "Is this really what this has been about? You need money and you're prepared to nearly kill yourself in the hope that some fifth-century potion will produce it for you?"

She was still hurting and nearly out on her feet. She couldn't tell him the truth and had no energy left to debate him about the logic of her apparent behaviour.

"Yeah, well no—I can earn money. Know that now. Bob's gig showed me what I really should be doing. That will all work out. But it takes so long. I owe lots of people, including you. It's a fucking lark for sure, but Mrs. Heung was very definite that my luck would change tonight. I had to take a shot."

Alex grinned. "And you're sure that the change is a lottery win? Maybe it's something else entirely."

Trula leaned into him to get a much-needed hug. She hurt all over, but adrenaline had taken over and she now had some energy back.

She whispered, "Well, if it's not the lottery, what else could it be? How could my life change this night without a little win? Don't think that faeries are about offering three wishes. Or is that genies? Can never get that right."

Alex pulled back a little and grinned. "What if it's nothing mystical at all? What if that room full of people is it? Just a whole bunch of us who care a lot about you. Seems like that could be good enough. Maybe it's exactly what the Mrs. Was trying to point you at?"

Trula knew that he was right about that. It might be all she needed. Being wrapped up in Alex's arms was just about all she would ever need. But they'd still be poor, struggling to live in a very expensive city.

She groaned, admitting, "Yeah, you're right. Week ago, I would have been desperate for a win as the only way out. Now I know that's not the only way. Fixing small things one at a time and having a crew to fall back on is the real solution. But, I, er, we would still be poor for a long time. Be nice to get have a little bankroll to get started."

Alex pulled back a little to meet her eyes. "You get well, get this behind you and we'll talk about that. I may have a little genie of my own. But mine only grants one wish, so you need to be sure what you really want before you ask."

There were shouts from the front room. "Trula, the numbers are coming up; get back in here...'

She grabbed her ticket from her backpack and followed Alex back into the front room. The lottery corp logo was just coming up as they sat down. She held her ticket up in front of her as the announcer started to read the numbers: 03, 22, 26, 32, 38, 42, 43. There was a bonus number of 08.

As the number was fully read out all eyes turned towards her. She kept a straight face. She was trying to come up with a pattern or memory aide to lock the number in. She finally said, "Rewind it. Leave the number up on screen. Not sure here."

Leena grabbed the remote and pushed the program back to the start of the numbers. Once the entire number was on-screen, she hit pause. There it was, her fortune, now close to sixteen million, shown on screen, just waiting for her to go back and get it.

Once she had the number locked in her head, she looked up to the expectant eyes of everyone in the room.

"Shit." She put the ticket down. "Well that's a kick in the crotch. Not even close. Fucking old lady was pulling my chain."

No-one else had expected a winner, so they weren't surprised. They groaned anyway. They might have hoped, and when she hesitated, had been prepared to be blown away by the weirdness of it all. Now they searched for something to say, to commiserate, to make her feel better, whatever. Nothing much came.

Trula broke the nervous silence. "Well, fuck, at least I can finally go take a pill." She laughed. "Never believe anything anyone promises. Not sure which was worse, swallowing the shit she gave me or slugging through the last day. Pour me another stiff one, I'll be right back."

Once in the bedroom, she repeated the numbers again several times. She had them locked in her head. It was time to take her real shot. She dug out the counterfeit blister pack. It was untouched. The three little pills that would kick her back in time were waiting right there. Someone else might be terrified, but for her, the jump wasn't scary at all. She had taken steps out of reality so often in her life that it seemed like just going through an easy-to-open door into a better place. Pain be damned. She pushed out the pills.

Back in the living room, Alex was still shaking his head. Trula had seemed to come back to normal as she realized that the lottery wasn't going to do it. She had even screwed with their heads a bit by hesitating. He hadn't planned on telling her that he was rich-enough to fix all of her problems without any need for magic. It was still early in their relationship and he wasn't at all certain that she would accept his offer. He already knew that she was the one person that he needed in his life, but would she feel the same way? He didn't plan on writing her a cheque; he would still ease into that. They could work hard at the stuff they loved to do together. It just wouldn't matter that much if they failed. Trying hard at risky stuff was actually fun. Who knew what someone like her could do with just a little seed money? First, they'd get her healthy, then they could go do whatever they wanted.

He was still chewing on his thoughts when he spied the discarded lottery ticket on the side table. The winning number was still up on the paused TV screen. He was the worst for misreading tickets. It was part of the reason why he never bought them. Now, he thought to just check that she hadn't maybe won ten bucks and missed it. He compared the number on the screen to the ticket.

He blinked as he read the ticket. The number sequence printed there was O1, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07. She had picked a nonsense number. The entire drama around seeing the number on the news was a charade. She was lying about the whole thing. Had there actually been a potion before her painful lesson in withdrawal? Was there any truth to the story? Or was it all some kind of sick scheme to gain sympathy? Maybe the entire thing was just a put-on to fuck with their heads? Was Bob actually right and she wasn't even sick, just faking it? The questions piled up in his head.

He decided to confront her. She deserved a chance to explain, but it needed to be the truth. Did he know her well-enough to see that or was he being suckered by a skilled manipulator?

As he was getting up to head into the bedroom, he heard a crash and a thud. Something heavy had fallen in there and taken down a lamp or table with it. His heart sunk as he called out.

"Trula...what the hell?"

### Chapter 16 – Reality 39573.02

Who knew that they numbered them? Trula had always assumed that the new reality she stepped into was a random rearrangement of the one and only reality there was, just adjusted to suit her current needs. She never considered all the other people who weren't jumping around. As a child, she figured that they were just part of the scenery, to be rearranged for her re-entry at whatever point in the stage-play that she chose. Did they know that they were being rearranged; did they care; did it completely fuck with their head? All questions that she chose to leave unanswered back then.

But now those questions appeared to be important. She wasn't the only thing in transition. Everything was moving back. Given the dusty little printed tag tied with a string on the new scenery in her head, it appeared that the alternate reality had been happily running alongside all the time. Could it be that there were more than thirty-nine thousand concurrent realities full of people and things; perhaps multiplied by a hundred versions, considering the placement of the decimal? Or was it concurrent at all? Maybe it was consecutive? Maybe the .02 version of the thirty-ninth-thousandth, five-hundredth and seventy-third reality was actually the only one happening right now. But, fuck, that was a lot of priors if this was just the next one. Or maybe it wasn't so large a number at all if divided by the several billion years of life on the spinning, orbiting, expanding earth. No matter how many thousands of realities had gone by, they could have each had millions of miles of clear space to exist in. Her head hurt. Too many questions? Or maybe just too many whisky and gingers.

The little tag moved into the background as the room she was in came into focus. She had no real idea about this part of the transition except from her experience of a week-ago. That time, she blacked out entirely and ended-up sitting on the kitchen floor, having apparently started to call someone on the wall phone, but either never completing the call or, if she completed it, having had no effect on the future. Couldn't have been 9-1-1 or there would have been a cop at the door. Guess it also wasn't ordering a pizza as none had arrived.

This time around she was a little more aware of the place she was heading into and of her place in it. She was barfing, finally, but neatly, right into a just-cleaned toilet bowl. It was her toilet and now she'd have to clean it again, for all the good it would do. The tag that she had been so intent upon as she came in for a landing was actually hanging from a rarely used toilet brush kit on the floor. Bought new at the dollar store, it strangely cost $3.95. It was item 73.02 in some sort of store inventory system. She shook her head a little while spitting up the last of the bile. She was sure that they had used that toilet brush before. Hadn't she just used it—why hadn't she taken the store tag off?

The little closed room gave her no hint about time of day. She was counting on a couple hours of backwards kick so that she would have enough time to get to Heung's to buy her new ticket. It had been fully dark when she stumbled back into her bedroom to take the pills. Was there daylight outside now? In spite of her splitting headache and aching body, she needed to get up and look out a window. She needed to tell time.

She crawled to the faded vanity and used the sink edge to get up to her feet. The room spun a little but settled into the expected pale green and off-white of the bathroom. She turned on the cold water tap, letting it run until she felt cool water on her hand. She bent and splashed the water on her face several times. Each little shock helped her to shake off the fading nausea. She bent and sucked a long cold drink from the stream of water. She was desperately thirsty. Finally, she felt a little better. A rough towel-off of her face brought her fully awake and left her ready to see if the gambit had worked. Daylight in the hallway would tell the story.

Her first look proved disappointing. The hallway was dark as hell. But then she realized that she was looking into the end that had closed entry doors for the bedrooms and a closet. It was always dark unless a light was turned on. Rotating her head slowly, so that any additional disappointment would be a gradual realization rather than a kick in the crotch, she looked out through the hallway entrance towards the squares of glass in the front door. It was a direct line with nothing blocking the view. The blazingly bright squares were illuminated by late-afternoon sunshine. There was no doubt about it, the day was younger. The night was still to come. She had done it.

A week ago she was stunned and confused. She staggered out to re-buy drugs that she hadn't bought in the first place. The ridiculous attempt to bargain with a street dealer as an almost penniless addict hadn't resulted in her being stabbed or raped, only by good luck. In the end, she had enough money to buy the pills for the first time, all over again.

No-one else would get it. They would assume that they were having a psychotic break. Next stop: the ER or 999 Queen for self-commitment. For her, the situation had come clear without the psychic stress. The repeated lottery numbers were the real kicker. Any other outcome and she might have convinced herself that she just stepped over the line to another reality—a completely different one. It was only the repeated numbers that told her she had stayed in the same one—just earlier. Or so she guessed. Maybe that's why it was version .02 now. She kicked the planet in reverse and the number forward with a jump of a couple million miles in space and maybe a quarter rotation backwards.

Now she had the chance to test her theory. The flat would be only half-cleaned. Alex wouldn't be back yet with party stuff. Her illicit pill pack would be whole again. And best of all, the Lotto7 number that she had memorized wouldn't have been drawn yet. That possibility was the pay-off for all her pain. She just had to do nothing that would change that little bit of the future. Make no dramatic moves. Step on no butterflies. Just check on the primary indicators here at home, then calmly and steadily get to the Variety to buy the winning ticket.

The walk into the kitchen proved out the first of her indicators, the place was clean enough, but not rearranged and there were no party supplies in sight. Alex hadn't shown yet. She opened the front door and took in a long breath of the apparently late afternoon air. It was fresh and clear, just like the day had been the first time around. Nothing on the street showed any differences or gave any indications of a major temporal shift. She thanked the cosmos racing past that she hadn't been deposited in the middle of a snow storm many months back. Just a little recalibration relative to the sun in the sky was perfect.

Closing the door before she coughed or farted and distracted some fucking butterfly, she next looked for her backpack. The pills back in their original packaging would be confirmation number three. She had a brief moment of panic when the first pocket she searched came up empty. But then she remembered packing them inside the front zippered pocket when she had the little scare about misplacing them. Sure, that's where she had dug-in just a few moments ago to get them a few hours from now, she hoped. She was in so much pain and mental discomfort then that she wasn't all together sure how she even pulled it off.

The second search came up golden; the pristine pack with its little smudged fake label was there, all in one piece; she hadn't dropped the pills yet and now wouldn't have to. One last check of the digital display on the alarm radio in her bedroom confirmed all she needed to know. The first digit was five and the last digits were one-five. She couldn't quite decode that but knew that five came long before ten, giving her lots of space to go get her ticket. All was as it should be.

She was still thirsty and now very hungry. Her full day off food in her strung-out state had taken a toll on her body. Like before, the effect of the illicit pills provided a little relief from the pain, but they weren't nearly as potent as legit Oxy. First, she would drink some more. Then, she'd steal something of Leena's out of the fridge. Then she'd drop one of her 40's.

The first two steps went easily enough. Drinking stolen orange juice and munching a slice of toast was simple. It wasn't until the third step that paranoia set in. She had the Oxy 40 in-hand when she stopped with a cold shiver running down her spine. Had she taken a real pill last week? Fuck, she couldn't remember. All she had were the street pills back then, she thought. If she felt OK enough to sit up with Leena to watch the news, it must have been due to the residual effect of those three pills. Even if they were only ground-up vitamin pills mixed with fucking fentanyl or something, they would have to do. Taking a legit pill might be her butterfly. Who knew—she might forget her numbers? She might be too pleasant with the world and somehow, someway, that change would get back to the little rubber-ball machine. She couldn't possibly know how; all she could do was to repeat all of the things that went together the last time as precisely as possible.

She had no sooner settled on the couch thinking how close she had come to fucking-up when she considered the pending party. Fuck, she had been out of it the first go-round. She was nearly comatose for both Alex and Leena. Had they done something the first time through that they wouldn't do this time? How the hell could she duplicate the mess that she was in and get them to react exactly the same way? How could it matter anyway? Everything they would do was entirely inside the house. Whether they laughed or cried couldn't have any effect on a nearly-random machine securely locked-away inside a lottery building many kilometres away. Or could it? Leena came in and went out again last time, didn't she? Did she leave because of the way she found her roommate? Alex must have made some calls—he was always on the phone. Would he make different calls if she was up and about, all cheery and well? Would one of the people he talked to talk to someone else who would talk to someone else and somehow cause the guy at the Lotto7 draw to be late by ten seconds?

Hell, Alex would probably want to jump in the sack once the set-up was done, if she was willing. That could really fuck things up, no-pun intended. Then he might not make the call he needed to make to get the other guy to call the other guy who would have been late but would now be on-time and still fuck up the draw. And no-one else in the entire universe would know, except her.

She grabbed her hair and screamed, "How the fuck can I do this? No matter what I do or don't do, it could all fuck-up."

She was interrupted in her lament by Alex noisily clumping in the front door carrying two cases of beer with a couple grocery bags of other stuff hanging from his hands. He was thanking someone else, who apparently dropped another case on the porch. Trula caught enough of the other person to see a well-packed pair of jeans swaying away beneath a full head of blond hair. Fuck, this was a new person. Had she seen Trula? Would she do something different as a result?

Alex must have seen the startled look on Trula's face. He tipped his head back towards the door. "Uber driver. She offered to hump a case up. Kinda had my hands full." He was shaking his over-worked hands. "Better than leaving it on the curb. This neighbourhood, never know what some thirsty senior might do."

It was a joke, but Trula didn't laugh. She asked, "Do you think that she saw me?"

"Who? The driver? Wasn't like we snuggled or anything. No need to be jealous."

Trula had to re-direct. This conversation had never happened the last time around.

"No. Sorry. Don't care anyway. Just feel like shit right now. Forget it."

She had to make a call on this right now. She had decided that her best hope was to pretend to be strung out again, but then how the hell was she going to get out to buy the ticket? If she was sick, Alex wouldn't let her just go wandering out on the street.

Maybe he could go for her? But then she'd have to give him the number. She planned to tell everyone that it was her lucky number from some other thing, like family birthdays, so the win would appear to be pure chance. So, sending him wouldn't work. Too much risk to the butterflies, anyway.

No, she couldn't go down the sick road. She would have to be as well as needed to be able to go out for some air or something and get over to the store. She had to go on her own. She had to fill in the number on the selection sheet and she had to watch Well punch it through. It was the only way. If any of that changed the world enough to somehow change the number, then she was fucked anyway. She might as well enjoy as much of the night as her needy body would allow. Being happy enough and well enough would have to do.

Alex was unpacking the supplies and stowing as much beer as he could in the fridge. One of his heavy bags was ice cubes, which he dropped on the floor while he went out the back in search of her old camping cooler. A minute later he came back carrying it and in swearing.

"Goddamn racoon trashed your shed in broad daylight. This city is being taken over by those fuckers and we're defenseless. Guess you didn't hear him out there?"

He then laughed, "He was either really pissed at you guys about something or maybe just really pissed that there was no food in the bag. Fucking garbage is spread all over the place."

Trula now remembered her frantic search for the street pills on her last go-round. The kickback had inserted her after that episode, but before Alex's return.

She couldn't help but laugh too. "Didn't—guess he was stealthy. Even if I heard him, I'm not going out there to suggest he stop. That fucker weighs fifty pounds and stands three feet tall. I've heard him beating the shit out of tom cats at night."

Alex had secured the broom and dustpan from the closet and was heading back out, still cursing. Trula gave in—she got up and moved into the kitchen to help out with the supplies. It was partly out of resignation, but mostly, in her dehydrated state, because a cold beer sounded awfully good.

As it turned out, getting out for the trip over to Heung's wasn't a problem. They decided on how to move the furniture and she helped a little in shoving the couch and chairs around. Every move hurt, but she decided to just button her lip and go with it.

They agreed that the place then needed a vacuuming and Alex dragged in their old canister. When he started it up, the smell was so bad that she begged off for fear of getting ill. He didn't know that she had re-entered this reality throwing-up, but her memory of it was still very clear.

She waved for him to stop. "That's disgusting. I have to get out of here. I'm going to Heung's for some dips and stuff. Don't think that we have enough and you didn't get any super-spicy ones. Want anything?"

Alex frowned a little, as he thought he bought lots of dip, but he long ago learned not to second-guess a woman's reasoning. The place would need a while to air-out after the dead-meat vacuum job anyway. He shook his head, "No," and waved her out.

She entered the outside world as cautiously as possible. She would walk on the less-travelled side of the street and hope not to have to interact with anyone on the way over or back. There was lots of traffic over on the main roads as rush-hour was always early on Friday. But on the side streets not much was happening. In the couple blocks over she managed not to interact with anyone. If any driver changed course on her account it wasn't through her doing. God knows some idiot could be staring at her ass and plow into the back of a garbage truck or something.

"Out of my control. Out of my control." She repeated the mantra under her breath. It was all she could do to actually stay in control as every dumpster lid bang or car horn in the distance told her over and over that the world was changing and that she was fucked.

Old Well was busy with a few people in the store, but as always, was happy to see her.

"Lo, Miss Trula. How you feel now? Angelica working yet?" The questions came between beeps of his scanner as he checked out someone's groceries.

She didn't want to talk until she had her number down on the little card, which she had forgotten at home, so she just gave him a smile and a thumbs-up. She got a new card out the rack and looked around for a pencil stub. There were none. If Well and Mrs. Well put them out, someone stole them. She guessed most regular lottery players brought their own pen. Maybe most just played the same card every week. It was a fucking pain. Now she would have to interact before she got her number safely down on the card.

She butted in front of a woman with an armload of chip bags and pop bottles. She got a harrumph and a frown in return. She thought, "damn another person's life has changed because of me."

"Sorry, sorry. Just need a pen. Woo-Jin can I use your pen? Need to pick a real number now."

Well frowned back at the lady behind her, who obviously wasn't a regular, so didn't have any right to expect speedy service. He casually handed a pen across the counter to Trula.

As she took it, he gave her a serious look. "Sure you don't want quick pick? Maybe better at pick number than you." He was poking a little fun at her for her earlier attempt.

She grinned, "No, got it figured out now. Got a lucky horoscope number that can't lose."

He snorted. "Hah, that all bullshit." The waiting lady harrumphed again. She obviously wasn't used to crude talk like that in a public place.

He continued, ignoring her, "Don't matter, guessin. Computer just chew it up and fart it out anyway. Hope you lucky." He checked the woman for reaction to fart, but she was now pouting and refusing to play the game.

Trula apologized again for good measure and took the pen back to the little ledge provided for the purpose of filling in selection cards. She hadn't noticed it before, but her hand was shaking as she considered her now slightly-damp card. She was sweating as well. This was it.

She had the number in her head. She carefully considered the make-up of the card and drew the pen down the first column of the first box to the number three. She filled it in. She was terrified that she would forget the sequence halfway through entering it. She followed the numbers to the third column and filled in 22, then right away to 26. Another turn around the columns got her to 32. Then she drew a blank. "Fuck; was the next one 36 or 38? Was it six bigger than 32 or the thirties number with six in it?"

If she thought too hard the rest of the sequence might disappear out of her head. She had to choose. Or she could buy two tickets, one with each number. She breathed in and out a couple times to restore calm, then selected 38. She swore at herself under her breath. "Don't be so fucking stupid. There is no brain power required here. Just go with your first choice."

The last two were easy. 42 then 43. Obvious that they were right. That was it. She ran through the list of numbers under her breath again. Yes, they were all right. They flowed. They jumped off the card. This was the winning pick.

Finally, she could have a conversation, if need be. She'd rather just slip out into the late afternoon, having spoken with no-one, but she could hardly go mute on Well. He treated his regulars better; he expected to advise on the weather or on the crappy garbage pick-up or on the latest neighbourhood scandal. It was part of the loyalty transaction.

She brought the card, the pen and a five-dollar bill over to him. Miraculously there was no-one else in line now. The pickle-up-her-ass lady was long gone. Well grinned as he checked her over for signs of improvement since her last visit half-a-day earlier.

'You looking better Miss Trula. See, angel dust works. Just wait a couple day. You be back for lots more."

She nodded and asked. "Say, Woo-Jin, can you check this card for me. Did I do it right this time?"

He appreciated the respect implied in being asked for guidance. He scanned her card and nodded back, making a few little hmms and ahs as he did.

"Looks good. These much better numbers. How does this come from horoscope?"

She was confused. What the fuck did her horoscope have to do with anything? Then she remembered her tossed-off comment earlier.

"Oh, no, not mine. It's my mother's and father's and brother's combined. Birthday's, you know." She shrugged, hoping that would cover it.

He smiled. "Ah, birthdays very good. Many winners say that their numbers come from birthdays. Much better than your first try, you know. But still takes lots of luck to win. Maybe get ten dollars back or free play. That's good too."

His motions seemed to slow like in a bad commercial as his hand moved the card to the reader on the machine. Then with a zip and a clunk, it was in and he was handing her the card back with her ticket. She stared at it for a few seconds. There was the number that she had seen only an hour or two ago locked on the TV in a room full of friends, who now didn't know that they were headed for those same places again, with a much different outcome. She had it. She could really breath again.

She didn't realize that there now was a little line forming and that Well was staring at her.

"Something else, Miss Trula?"

She came back to the store setting in a rush of sound. People, street noise, buzzing coolers and the binging of the bell over the door. She shook off the pleasant disconnect. It was time for her to leave.

She smiled. "Ah, sorry, just thinking what I'll do with the twelve million, sorry."

Well nodded again as he reached over her to get the next customers items.

"Ah, missy, better than that, now twenty million. Be more later. Goes up all the time." He handed her back the pen. "Sign ticket." She did.

She had to force one foot in front of the other to get out of the store. Twenty million? The pot had clearly been less than that when she got the number. Had they said how much it was on TV at the draw? They must have, but in her near-delirious state she hadn't logged that part in her head. Had millions more tickets been sold this time-around? That would surely fuck-up the number draw somehow. What else was different?

She stopped dead on the sidewalk five steps away from the doorway. She cursed. "Fuck me!"

No-one but a tied-up mutt heard her. She had forgotten the salsa that was her excuse for coming over. She spun and headed back into the store. More complications. Her mind kept running at full speed as she dead-stepped her way to the shelf and picked up the first jar of salsa she saw. When she got back to the cash, Well made a little joke about her maybe old-too-soon forgetfulness that she didn't really hear. She forced a shrug and a smile, grabbed the little bag and headed out again, in a physical stupor but spinning in a mental maelstrom.

She once expected her walk home to be just a little joyous. She had her number in and had her ticket zipped securely in her pack. Well had even made her sign it before he took his pen back. It was ironclad. She couldn't lose. But, now she had at least one indication that maybe something else had slipped when she nudged the earth backward. Maybe the planet deviated one-millionth of a degree off-course. Maybe butterflies that should have been born had been lost in the turmoil and now would never be born. She didn't know what was different, but the possibility of a variation sat in her stomach like a cold rock. She staggered back to the house, now fully expecting to lose. Easy fortune was a gag-joke. What a fool she was.

### Chapter 17 - Reality 39573.01

Alex took only a few seconds to get into the bedroom. In that short interval he had plenty of time to wish for a simple explanation. Maybe a picture had slipped off its hanger; the old plaster walls must have allowed the tired nail to snag; maybe the wind had blown a curtain that had knocked over a barely-balanced vase on the edge of the dresser; maybe they had overworked the bed and it had just collapsed in exhaustion? All the hoped-for reasons for the noisy crash would be good news because Trula would still be standing there, maybe laughing.

As he got to the door, he realized that none of the hoped-for reasons were good ones, as there was no sign of a standing Trula. The room might well have been empty on first look. There was also no sign of spontaneous failure of a fixture. Nothing in his first glance into the bedroom told him anything about what had happened. She appeared to have disappeared entirely from the still quite-orderly chamber.

He called out, "Trula, you alright, What the hell was that crash? Where are you?"

He stopped short of the bed. He could see the entire room including the open closet door. There was no immediate sign of Trula. He could the side table beyond the bed was now bare. There had been a crappy tablecloth covering it, with a bunch of stuff including a couple empty glasses and a plate from in-bed snacks that they heated in the microwave and shared two nights ago. He was supposed to clean that stuff up. Now it and the tablecloth were gone.

He had to believe that she would answer him if she was just down on the floor picking up pieces of broken china or glass. Maybe she was embarrassed. He could cut her some slack as she was still pretty fucked-up from going without her meds all day.

'Trula, did the stuff fall down? Leave it. I'll get it."

He walked quickly around the bed, knowing that he was fooling himself. Glasses might have made the crash, but they didn't make the thud. Something heavy had fallen and there were few possibilities.

He saw her feet first. They gave no indication of a problem. She might have just decided to check for something under the bed in the foot and a half of free space there. But the feet weren't moving. He got around the bed and saw that the table cloth was half on top of the person laying there. Maybe Trula decided to use it as a cover, but she forgot about the tabletop glassware that really had first call on the thin cloth. There was only one arm visible, but then Trula did like to sleep on her side. Maybe that was it? His one-second prayer was for just that possibility—that she had just gone to bed and, unlikely as it was, rolled off the edge in her sleep.

He pushed the table back as much as he could and bent down beside her. He had room for one knee, so stretched his body over that.

"Trula? Hey, you OK? Looks like you had a tumble. You OK? Can I help you up?"

It was only as he got down to within a couple inches of her body that he saw the whiteness of her face. Her eyes were half-open and lifeless. Her mouth was partly open with the tip of her tongue showing between bluish lips. She wasn't conscious. But was she breathing?

He fought down his initial panic and began to do what needed to be done. He yelled out at the top of his lungs.

"Hey, anyone! Trula's fallen. Help me. Help me in here!"

The whole house heard him.

He was trying to feel for breath and a pulse at the same time and getting no indication of either. "What the fuck?"

He heard the feet of others pounding their way into the bedroom. Questions began to fly, none of which he had answers to.

"What happened? Is she alright? Why is she back there?

For long moments it seemed like no-one had any better idea of what to do than he did. The first voice he heard that wasn't asking a question was Larvie's.

"Move. Out of my way. Alex get off of her. We have to get her out of there. We'll pull her out, lift yourself up out of the way."

Almost before that command registered, her body was moving underneath him. Larvie and Rudy had her legs; they were pulling her out. With no verbal communication, they got her clear of the bed and on her back. Larvie immediately moved to her head and felt for a carotid pulse. He used two fingers to ensure that her mouth was clear and that she hadn't swallowed her tongue. There was no breath to speak of.

After only a moment, he said, "Heartbeat is faint and fading. She's alive but failing."

He spun and pointed at Leena. "Call 9-1-1. Tell them overdose. Unconscious. Breathing stopped. Give them the right address right up front. Tell them to fucking hurry."

Leena ran out, her phone was in her room.

He loudly asked, "Anyone have a Narcan kit?"

Everyone shrugged. They sort of knew the dangers of street drugs, but never thought that they would be called on to save someone's life.

When nothing was offered, Larvie spoke firmly again, "We have to assume that it's an overdose due to bad drugs. Probably fentanyl or carfentanyl. Her heart is beating too slowly—we need to keep her alive until help gets here. Just a few minutes away, but they might be her last minutes if we let her fade."

He looked over at Alex. "Alex, do you know rescue breathing? Don't think that she is breathing enough on her own. We need to start CPR. Just breaths for now, as long as we have a heartbeat."

Alex was still panicked. "Yeah, maybe, er...no. Not since years-ago class. Never done it."

Larvie smiled briefly. "Then you won't mind if I kiss your girlfriend. I used to teach this stuff. We'll save her."

With that, he moved to her head, tipped it back, pinched her nose, put his mouth over hers and started breathing air into her lungs. He put one hand in the middle of her chest to ensure that he was inflating her lungs. Between breaths, he said. "Clear airways. She should be OK."

After the next breath, he said, "Alex get her pulse on the other side of her neck or right against her ribcage if need be." He gave her another breath. "Give me a count out loud. If it stops, we'll switch to chest compressions."

He went back to breathing steadily for her about every three seconds.

Alex was clicking back into his own reality, realizing now that the two of them really did have her life in their hands. He found the faint pulse and counted out: "1, 2, 3, 4." Her heart rate was down to less than thirty beats a minute. It was so faint that he had trouble holding it and nearly panicked again. But it was there—he nodded on each beat to Larvie, who kept up his steady rescue breathing.

Leena came back in with her phone locked against her head. She yelled, "They're two minutes away." She turned back and ran out to the front to turn on lights and get the door open. She could hear the siren. She would wave them down.

Larvie looked up. "We're good, Alex." Breath. "We got her. Just hang-on now." Breath.

Wisely, Bob was moving everyone out of the way. The responders would be coming through at full speed with kits of stuff. They wouldn't need any help and wouldn't be apologetic if they ran someone over.

He suggested, "Let's all get out to the kitchen. These guys have got this and they'll have help in a few seconds. Best we can do is to get out of the way."

Moments passed and they heard Leena speaking loudly. "In here." She was leading two firefighters in light kit. One of them, a woman, entered the bedroom first and took in the scene.

Larvie kept up his rescue breathing. He would wait to be pushed off. Between breaths, he said, "Weak heartbeat, no respiration."

Deep in her head, Trula was lying on a damp stone floor. It was a slow-moving place where thick blackish air didn't have enough oxygen. She wanted to breath deeply to get more air in, but the weight of the dark was pressing down on her chest. Each breath was harder than the last. She was ready to give up trying when a prince came along and kissed her. His lingering kiss added just a little more air to each of her breaths. He was handsome enough that she decided to keep trying just a little longer so that she could keep looking at him. He had on a sparkly uniform. He was so definite, so specific—he told her to breathe on her own. She did.

Then he told her to get up. The last part was a fucking impossibility. Her body was useless. She surmised that was why she was in the mortuary, waiting to be filed. At the edges of the darkness she could see a stone wall with labeled crypts—she guessed that they were filing cabinet drawers for the dead. One must be for her, if she could find it. She had a system—it would just take some time. Dead would be cold and lonely lying in a rock vault, but at least it wouldn't be damp and painful.

The prince was now standing off. He seemed to be waiting for her to do something. She asked, "Why did they drop me on the floor?" She was sad about dying, but continued, "I'm supposed to go in a crypt. To rest, to take a break, you know."

He laughed. "No crypts here. No breaks either, at least not for you, yet. This is a busy place. These are all doorways. People move through. And you're in the way.

Now she was confused. "Where am I then? Is this heaven or hell?

He laughed. "Some might call it either one, but they'd be wrong. It's Misplacea, of course—for those that know how to get here. Welcome back. You're forgetting a lot lately. Maybe you hit your head when you fell down?"

She was definitely fuzzy. She sat up, in severe pain.

She asked, "These are doorways? So, I can't stay here? I don't get to rest yet? What about my promise of good fortune?"

The prince glanced away; he was needed elsewhere—other doors could be heard opening and closing in the distance—he was impatient to be off.

He shrugged, answering, "Don't know anything about good fortune. This is just a place to get to and from. You know that. You need to hop to it—pick your next door, get going again."

Once both EMS techs were in place, they snapped open kits and began the practiced routine for bringing someone back from near-death. As the respirator mask came in, Larvie sat back and got out of the way. The faintly-smoky pro took over, fitting intubation and a bellows mask and starting an oxygen flow. She picked up where Larvie left off on the same rhythm, squeezing each breath in with the rubber bulb.

In the dark place, Trula had more questions, but the prince was done helping her, he was walking away. She was sitting on the hard floor all by herself. His unfriendly parting comment was, "Get yourself together or don't come back here."

She rolled forward to her hands and knees. Breathing was easier now. She couldn't possibly stand, but she could crawl. The closest door was labelled 39573.01. It was standing partly open. She guessed maybe that was were she came in. Above it was 39573.02. That door was closed. A little slider was red, reading "Occupied."

Other doors above it stretched in a vertical row. The numbers she could make out seemed to add to the decimal. She could see the slider was green for "Vacant" on those. Similar stacks of doors on either side had completely different numbers. Some were occupied and some were vacant.

The rock wall of doorways disappeared into the dark in both directions. She could now make out handholds and ledges in the rock that would allow someone to climb the wall. She didn't have the strength to reach any doorways except the one directly in front of her. She doubted that she could even stand to get into .02, if it were vacant. Going back through door .01 would have to do—she pulled the small door all the way open and began to crawl through the opening.

Larvie watched Trula's resuscitation closely. He offered, "Drugs weren't injected. It was fast though—maybe snorted. No drugs in sight here, but she's an addict."

The second firefighter nodded and pushed up Trula's sleeve. Without hesitation, he scrubbed a spot over thick muscle and administered a compact syringe from his Narcan kit. It couldn't hurt her and the stimulant would let her recover her own breathing control, if this was an opioid overdose.

Next, he used a stethoscope to confirm that she had a steady heartbeat. He nodded to his partner and to Larvie. He began to deploy their compact EKG kit. Once they had her breathing on her own, they could check the strength of her heart.

As this was happening, the next set of EMTs, this time from an ambulance, arrived at the room with their own gear. Some form of coded communication from the firefighters told them it was just a normal overdose and that they had it. The second team went to get the bright yellow stretcher out of the ambulance and into the front room, then came back in to monitor progress.

Trula imagined that she was making some progress up a tight corridor, first on her hands and knees, then when it got a little brighter and the ceiling got a little higher, she finally got to her feet and tried a few steps forward into the haze. She stepped over an unseen ledge and crashed into pit full of broken plates and broken glasses. It hurt like hell.

About twenty seconds after the injection Trula coughed and began to attempt to draw breath again on her own. The deadening effect of the overdose was being countered by the naloxone. Her normal body functions were coming back on line. She'd be in rough shape for many hours, as both the drugs and the cure wore off, but she was alive. The firefighter switched her to a passive oxygen mask while they completed their EKG assessment.

Trula started to process where she was and what was happening. The pit was her bedroom and the broken glass was, well, really broken glass. She brought Alex into focus as he stood back out of the way of the soldiers causing her more pain. She had no idea why the uniformed crew was there, but turned and saw Richard above her. He was once a soldier; he must have ordered them in. Strangely, he was now cradling her head and holding one of her hands while Alex looked uncomfortable across the room.

The lady soldier with badge number 39573 on her uniform was talking to her. "Looks like you got some bad drugs dear. Close call. Whatever you took, don't take it again. Tell your boyfriend here where it is and have him dispose of it, or give it to us. You'll be needing again soon enough. We didn't cure you of your addiction, we just killed your high and restarted your breathing. Next time you might not be so lucky."

It was advice they gave out at least once a day, sometimes more often. Confused, nearly-dead addicts usually nodded and groaned. Few paid any attention. They might avoid the shit for a while, then they'd play Russian roulette again with their next needle or snort. Maybe one in a hundred got the message. Those few realized how close to being dead they had come and found a way to change course. It was faint hope, but trying to heal them was part of the job. The hospital would try too. If she was willing, maybe a counsellor or friend would also give it a shot.

Trula was just confused. She was hearing a lecture about not doing something that she didn't think she did. What drugs were they talking about? Why were all these people in her bedroom? Better, why was she still in her bedroom? She was supposed to be somewhere else. She was supposed to be back a few hours getting ready to get rich. She said, "Fuck," under her breath or at least thought that it was to-herself. Maybe she said it out loud under the little plastic mask. It didn't make any difference.

In what seemed like way too many steps involving many strangers, she was helped onto the wheeled stretcher, had her minor cuts and scratches cleaned and was taken towards the front door for a trip to the Toronto General ER. On the way out of the house she finally had a chance to talk to Alex and then to Leena. Alex still looked incredibly uncomfortable. He might have been near tears, but for some reason also appeared to be pissed-off.

He leaned in close to her and said, "I'm so sorry. I should have done something about this earlier. I wasn't telling you the truth. I could have helped."

She had a moment to consider what he was saying. She guessed he meant that he should have forced her to take a proper pill earlier. She had enough of her senses back and a clear enough head to have thought it all through. Something had gone terribly wrong. Either she took the wrong pills, maybe from the wrong end of the pack, or maybe the kick-back effect was just one random outcome from the contaminated drugs. This go-round, they almost killed her. Her wish for sudden riches was just a foolish mistake. She wouldn't take that risk again.

She whispered back to him through the oxygen mask. The CPR and respirator left her throat raw but they wouldn't give her a drink. "Not your fault. Mine. Knew better, but took the wrong thing. Stupid mistake."

He didn't appear to hear her. He just squeezed her hand. He said, "Larvie, er Richard, saved your life. Not sure if we could have pulled it off without him." He paused, then continued, "I'm hearing you. I'll help. As soon as you're out, we'll find a fix for your dependency. The best treatment around. Money isn't an issue. I'm sorry if you thought that was important. It's not."

She guessed that he was offering to take his meager earnings and use them to help her get straight at some private clinic. She didn't have the energy to tell him, "No." It wasn't how she would get better. Her problems ran a lot deeper than dependency on stupid drugs.

Leena leaned-in after him and wished her a quick recovery. "I'm sorry if I did anything to cause this. I should have stuck with you. See now that you really just need us all to stick with you. Please don't be sad. We'll fix it."

Trula wondered about the sudden concern for her well-being. Fix seemed to be the operative word. She agreed with that anyway—she needed fixing.

The second crew of EMTs, which she finally figured out weren't actually the army, had parked her just inside the door while they got the back of the ambulance ready. She had a few moments to just lay there. She turned her head and saw the whole gang looking very distressed across the room. Richard was still getting thanks and maybe congratulations from the others, but everyone who was looking her way had a sad puppy-dog look.

She wanted to jump up and say, "Fooled-you! All just a joke. Party gag gone wrong. Look at you guys all sad over there—guess I really suckered you, eh?"

But she didn't jump up. As she lay there thinking about Alex's apology, Leena's apology and the look on her friends' face, she realized that they all thought she had tried to kill herself. Someone must have theorized that she was demoralized about not winning the lottery and decided to end it all by overdosing. Shit, they thought she had attempted suicide.

She shuddered with the thought, "Fuck, did Alex think that too?"

Alex came along with her for the ride to the ER. It was a normal, no-siren drive, although, based on the blue and red lightshow on passing buildings and trucks, she guessed that they had the emergency lights on. Why not? Why screw with traffic delays when you can just push everyone else up on the curb and out of your way. It was a quick drive.

At the hospital, the relaxed crew wheeled her into a crowded hallway holding spot and asked again how she was feeling. She gave them a thumbs-up and tried again to get a drink, but they now said that she had to wait for a triage nurse to OK-it. She was still strung-out and would need something besides water soon. Alex hung back until the ambulance crew satisfied themselves that she could wait somewhat comfortably. They left to repark the ambulance or something.

He came over and kneeled beside her, saying, "God, tell me that this will be OK? That was too close..." He was starting to apologize again.

She interrupted him and took his hand. "Alex, it was an accident. I took the wrong pills. Stupid. Had them in my pack from before. Got them from a street dealer a ways-back. I never touched them before so I assumed that they were legit Oxy. It was shit, I guess. You have to believe me."

Her throat was raw, and the pain was building, but she had to get it out. She took his hand. "I wasn't trying to kill myself."

He looked at her carefully for a few moments. She guessed a little voice in his head was suggesting, "Of course that's exactly what an attempt-survivor might say."

She needed water and wasn't going to wait for some styrofoam cup of fucking ice chips. She croaked out, "Hey, take a break and go sneak me a bottle of water from a machine. I might die of thirst after all this effort and what a waste that would be." She tried on a grin.

His nod and shrug seemed to give in to the possibility that she would be OK. The ambulance crew was back in the area. He left her with a squeeze of her hand. He probably needed the walk around to slow down as well. Once she was alone, she had space to let ironic disappointment slide over her. "Fuck, I died, but couldn't even get that right."

The shouldas and couldas were spinning around in her head. She played close to the line taking the crap meds, but she thought the risk was worth it. She should have known better. She never considered them having no backwards effect at all. Could she have done it differently? She should be making plans for a new, rich life. Instead she was just another OD'd junkie who didn't die, this time. How could anyone take her seriously now? Her job was likely gone. Bob wouldn't want her around. Leena was probably packing to leave already. Alex would be sympathetic and mostly supportive for a while, but with trust between them gone, he'd fade away like everyone else she ever cared for. The entire night was a classic Trula fuck-up.

### Chapter 18 – R.02 Replay the Party

Leena was home when Trula got back from Heung's. She and Alex were goofing around with her iPhone connected to her little Bose box. He was suggesting music she'd never heard of and was fake-gagging at some of her selections. They finally went with a decade-back shuffle on some Internet channel. Trula was surprised and pleased to see Leena beaming about something. Only she knew that the last time around, all that either of them could think about was the near-dead junkie of the couch going through withdrawal while throwing ice-cold poop on everybody's party plans.

Trula couldn't help but grin as well. She decided halfway home that she would give herself credit for the effort even if the whole gambit didn't pay her a cent. She was capable of enduring pain for something she really wanted and now she knew that was Alex. They could have a normal life. They could have a good time for a few hours tonight and figure the rest out later. She would drop a 40 and forget the whole thing. Well could tell her tomorrow if she had won a free play or ten bucks—he'd treat that like a big deal anyway. She'd get back on track with working and, hopefully, with recovering.

She asked Leena, "You look like you're on another planet—what's up?"

Leena grinned back—then she frowned. She turned down the music by talking to a fourth person, apparently in the room, named Siri.

She looked back and forth between Trula and Alex for a moment. "Well, I invited a few people over tonight, if they can make it. Hope that's OK. No big deal, they're people I work with—seeing as I'm viewed as the stiffest, least interesting person there, a bunch may show just to see me fumble about at being social."

Trula laughed. "Oh, that's crap. You're just about the most interesting person I know. Second most interesting, anyway." She blew a kiss at Alex.

Alex puckered his kiss-catch and added, "Plus, this place is super-interesting all on its own, chunky toilet and all, so there's nothing to worry about. You can relax and just have fun. I guarantee once Bob and the boys get here, your folks won't know what hit them."

Trula wrinkled her brow at the "chunky toilet" part. Had she left some evidence of her barfy re-entry?

Leena laughed at both of them. "Well, you'll both be pleased to know that I don't give a shit what any of them think or do. They'll have their own good time or they won't—not my concern."

She held up her pointer finger and continued, "Except for one person that is."

Trula moved closer but resisted throwing in a hug. Leena had taken their advice and invited a special man. She pointed at Alex and then back to herself. Then she put out her arms and ran around Leena in a little circle, making airplane engine noises. "Wingpersons ready for action! We'll make sure that he has a really good time."

Leena nodded, but clearly wasn't all-together thrilled with the idea of these two maneuvering her date into her bed or wherever these things ended up.

"Uh, well, slight correction. Feels weird coming out with this after all of our late-night ogling of ripped guys on TV." She winked at Trula as Alex frowned.

"But the thing is, uh, her name is Sam. Short for Samantha. As in, she's a woman."

Trula and Alex were momentarily confused, but within a couple seconds, both realized that their mistake was making the assumption that Leena was just like them.

Trula thought, "Well that explains a lot."

Leena might have wished to be more than a friend back when Trula was capable of loving back. She probably stuck it out through her troubles because she wanted to be more that just a roommate. Trula felt like shit. Had she been cruel and taken advantage of someone who loved her, even if she didn't know that she was doing it? Nothing to do about it now.

"Oh, Leena. That's great." She added, "Feel kind of dumb that I've lived with you for two years and didn't clue in, but I'm so happy for you." Now, she did go in for the hug.

Alex was left feeling dumb as well. He rightly figured that he didn't need to add anything to these friends finding this new ground. He had all sorts of friends and acquaintances; Leena was special, but only because she was important to Trula, regardless of her orientation.

As he wasn't part of the hug, he figured the next best thing he could do was to lighten the mood as much as possible. He put his arms out and "flew" over to the women, who were still hugging in the middle of the living room.

He asked, "So, barumm, barumm, will you still be needing those wingMEN, mam?"

He was circling near-enough to be invited into the hug, but wasn't. The moment was about two entangled women sharing something non-verbal that he didn't get.

Leena finally broke off and grinned at him. "Well, I think, er hope, that Sam and I are past that point, but nothing wrong with maybe flying some interference if I have any trouble protecting her from the rowdy office crowd. Not that these folks are all idiots, but I haven't seen most of them with a few drinks or tokes in them. Given their frequent hungover state at work, I think that they like to, how do you say, party?"

Alex stopped circling and laughed. "Gotcha. Distracting drunks is our speciality, right Trula? You cut in high and I'll cut in low. They'll never know what hit them."

After a shared laugh, all three friends got busy finishing the party preparations. Alex had all the windows wide-open to finally banish the vacuum's nasty smell. He had thrown the entire machine in the garbage, vowing to himself to replace it with an extra one he would find at his place. Or actually, he'd find it at the hardware retailer a couple doors up.

Trula gave-in to her aches and finally took another legit pill from her prescribed pack. She noted that she was behind the schedule laid out by Doc Lana so would have a couple extra to take in the next week. She hoped to feel pretty good without a boost, if the lottery plan worked out, but having some extras in reserve was a nice new feeling after scrambling for every pill for the last couple months.

The place was ready to go, with maybe a half-hour to spare before people started showing up. Leena disappeared into her room, saying she was going to grab a shower and would then put the final touches on the bathroom. Trula guessed that she was also grabbing a last-minute shave and trim, but just grinned a little. What a woman did before date-night was none of Alex's business, so it would be the girl's little secret.

She and Alex finally had time to just sit down together on the couch with a couple beers. They broke the comfortable silence at the same time.

"Got something I should tell you." It was like there was an echo.

They both laughed. Trula said, "OK, you first."

He still wasn't sure. "Uh, guess I just wanted to say that I'm glad that you're making this all happen. Bob loves you. He'll have lots of work if you want it. The new meds are making you a more, uh, relaxed person. Not that you were hyper, but guess we both know what being unsure is all about."

He paused and snuck a little kiss in. "I don't want to take any credit for making you happier, but maybe it's not just coincidence, eh?"

Trula laughed. "Fuck, you're way too modest. You changed my life. You rescued me. If things work out with Bob and I eventually get on top of this addiction, it will be 99% due to you."

Alex shrugged. "Naw, that's just the world finally giving you a break. I'm pretty sure you would have found another way if I hadn't come along with the connection to Bob and the crew. You're earning every bit of what comes your way."

Trula frowned. "So that's what you wanted to tell me?"

He now laughed. "No, that's just my bullshit preamble. What I wanted to tell you is to stop worrying about money and about a place to live. I have lots of dough and I'm pretty sure that we might actually make livable roommates."

She frowned. "Roommates, huh? Sounds a little like I put out and you pay me. Think that they call that something else."

Alex had to backtrack. He meant to tell her that he was wealthy-enough, a business owner and was ready to commit himself to her, but none of it would come out. He was still scared that she valued her independence more than any of that. In spite of everything he could offer her, he might lose her if she felt he was taking over her life. It was too soon.

He restated, "Yeah, guess that came out wrong, but I wanted to tell you that I'd love if you would consider—just consider, living together when this place goes. Or maybe we could stay here, if you want. Maybe we just say it's a next step: a little one that would let me at least hang up some clean clothes in a closet?"

Trula grinned. She had him squirming and her nice buzz from the 40 was making this all seem very funny.

'Well, I guess we could start with half a closet and see where it goes from there. Do I get the same privilege at your place?"

"Of course, except you may not have noticed: my little dump doesn't have any closets. Not sure you want to share a wobbly Ikea wardrobe with my old socks."

He was done talking. He reached around her and pushed her down for a long kiss. They had lots to talk about but this wasn't the time.

Leena passed through in her bathrobe and clucked at them. "Get a room, eh?"

Alex broke off the embrace and rolled onto the floor, laughing again. "That's the idea."

He looked back up at Trula. "So, what did you want to tell me."

She grinned. "Just wondered if you wanted to bring some clean clothes over, for my actual closet, if we're going to keep on making the ones you're wearing all funky. Guess we're kinda on the same wavelength."

Alex frowned. Did he see through her attempt to deflect? She had thought to spin future possibilities, just her hunches and all; but it wasn't the time. She would happily wait and he would have to just stay curious about what was really on her mind.

The various invited friends and associates started showing up early for a night-time party. Some of Leena's workmates showed up early in two couples. This time she got introduced.

One woman immediately went charging about the flat. "Oh, wow, this place is amazing." She took off down the hallway towards the bedrooms.

Trula looked at Leena and got a shrug. The woman came back into the living room.

"So, is it costly to heat? Do you pay the utilities? Think the landlord might spring for some paint. What's the upstairs tenant like? Is there parking out back?"

The questions kept coming. Leena answered a couple as she made her way over to Trula.

She held out her hands, palms up, whispering. "Sorry, mentioned that we're moving out. She's looking. Thought that she might get to old short fuse before he lists, if he's gonna relist at all. Didn't really plan on hosting a showing tonight."

Trula frowned and responded, "Little premature, maybe. Alex sort of said that he is interested in coming over. Guess he could be the primary tenant, if numbnuts accepts his credit rating. Other things might change, too."

She wished that she knew if she was going to pick up a few million next week. All of this would be stupid. They'd all be outa here to somewhere new, big and luxurious. But, no win, her and Alex might be happy to scrape-by in this place. If she took him up on his half-assed proposal that is. Anyway, she didn't need some bitch trying to pull it out from under them.

She interrupted the question stream. "Uh, we're gonna need to get back to you on your interest after we talk to the owner. If he's renting again, you'll be the first to know."

Now the woman frowned and turned to Leena. "Thought you said you were definitely moving out? Why can't I just talk to the owner?"

Leena shrugged. Alex was the wild card here and she had no way of knowing how serious his interest in Trula and in the flat really was, but she wasn't going to risk their relationship over a misunderstanding.

She shook her head. "Well, guess I spoke a little too soon for these guys. Like Trula said, we'll make sure you get first shot, if it's going to be available. Please feel free to keep looking around if you want."

The crisis passed when another bunch of office people came in. Then Rudy arrived with his guest. Rakesh trailed in, carrying the exact same boxes of tantalizing food as before. This time around, Trula could hardly wait to dive in. So far, the world was turning as it should and inside the house, all bets were off. She laughed at the little encounter with the office bitch. It was fun being in control and in charge. She tried to remember the last time she was this happy.

She couldn't recall any more of the original party as she was passed out for most of it. Until Bob arrived that is. This round she had time for a few beers, a couple frozen vodka shots, one small toke and a lot of goofing around with Alex and the crew as the party developed.

Leena's Sam arrived alone after most of her other workmates had shown up. It was fairly obvious who she was by Leena's reaction. Trula watched them through the kitchen doorway over Rakesh's shoulder, waiting for a hug. If it was long and more-than-friendly, they were actually a number and tonight wasn't a coming-out surprise to anyone else. There wasn't one, just a little arm-touch and a big smile on both faces. They were secret number, if they had a relationship going. Trula got Alex's attention and tipped her head towards the other room.

She leaned over and whispered, "That must be Sam. Got your engine warmed up?"

Alex moved around and casually assessed the pair near the front door. He nodded. "Time to take flight, captain?"

Trula shook her head. "Fuck no. This has to be subtle and well-executed. No blundering in. We're very casual, no agenda obvious. We just pull the two of them into our little circle. The noisy office crowd is likely to slow Leena down, if she has to be polite. I'm going out to just say hi—you hang back. Got it?"

Alex nodded. He wondered how often she would be laying out plans for the two of them down the road. She was a natural tactician and director, in work and in love. He might be in trouble.

Leena wasn't quite sure of Trula's mood after the little blow-up with her other workmate. When she saw her coming over with a nice smile, she hoped for the best.

Over the considerable noise of the party, Trula offered only, "Hi, I'm Trula."

The pretty and assured-looking woman leaned-in and responded, "Hi, I'm Sam. Love your place. Leena says you guys have been roomies for a couple years?"

She smelled great. This was a good sign.

It was an opening for Leena to throw-in, just about yelling. "Yeah, Trula took me in when I was a struggling newbie at the office. We started out just splitting rent, but guess we're now pretty good friends too."

Trula knew they were more than that. "Pretty good? We're attached at the hip. But then, she works so hard and long that I guess you guys are more like family that I am."

Sam laughed. "Not fucking likely family at the sweatshop. We survive for each other though. Leena actually rescued me from the mind-numbing drudgery by being my lunch buddy."

So, they were stepping up from casual daylight dating to a nighttime encounter. Trula logged that as fodder for later. The wingperson's job would be to get them someplace quieter and to make sure that Sam wanted to stay late—very late. Easy.

She responded, "Hey, let's go get you a drink. My Alex is pouring. You need to meet him too. Plus, the kitchen is a lot quieter."

They were off and running.

Bob's arrival was one of the events that she had logged in her foggy recall of the original party; mostly because he had charged right into her bedroom and tried to haul her out of bed regardless of her strung-out condition. It had worked too. She had struggled up and made it out to socialize a bit and to see the lottery number.

This time around she was in fine form and more than ready for him, if a little drunk from her participation in Alex's successful effort to get a few drinks into Leena and Sam. She realized that she would need all of her remaining willpower to take on the boss on anything close to an even keel.

The roar preceded him. Most of the others Uber'd over or parked up the street. Bob's driver put the big diesel pick-up right in their currently-empty driveway. The old guy upstairs had a car, but he was conveniently away somewhere. If he came back, he'd be on the street too, until Bob and friend felt like moving. That could be sometime early tomorrow morning.

Trula hadn't met Rennie before, although Bob variously referred to her as his old lady, the little woman, his better three-quarters and the real boss. Trula was somewhat surprised that she appeared to be a friendly and amazingly-calm lady who likely did direct Bob towards better outcomes, but took no ownership of how he got there. Although she did drive the rig tonight in consideration of Bob's considerable pre-drinking.

Bob leaned a little to one side, but brightened up enough to attempt the introductions. "Ren, this here is True-law. He grinned as he stretched out her name with perfect recall, if imperfect annunciation. Trula didn't know if the lady was in on his "can't quite get your name" shtick or if it was their private joke. She gave him a little scowl of acknowledgement.

He grinned and continued, "Been telling you what a find she is. Puts these other reprobates right in line." He waved in the general direction of Rudy and Rakesh. "Hell, if she could drive, I could retire."

Trula got the rhythm of the patter; she was just drunk enough to understand him perfectly and to go with the proposition.

"Gee, Uncle Bobby, din" know that I was holdin' up yer retirement. Of-course I kin drive. Been drivin eighteen wheelers since I was twelve. Jus steering on cruise-control cross the prairies, sitting on my step-daddy's lumpy lap of course, while he caught some sleep, or so he said. Might say that's how I lost my drivin virginity. Once you drive stick there's just no getting off on anything else."

Rennie was left blinking as she slowly turned back to Bob, possibly for more information on this relationship, but more likely to see if the master of the one-liner had just been put in his place.

Bob blinked too, then grinned. He had a comeback. "Too bad the rig is an automatic. That's somethin I might've liked to see. You humpin stick that is."

Rennie didn't like the direction that these two drunks were taking the conversation. She butted in, clearly giving Bob the message to stop before he put his foot in it.

'Hi Trula, I'm Rennie. Thanks for inviting us over. It is so nice to see 'Uncle' Bobby here adding some class and a capable woman to his business. You seem to understand his special needs pretty well."

She elbowed Bob in the ribs, eliciting a grunt. She continued, whispering, but loud enough that Bob could clearly hear her. "Just let him keep thinking that he's running a real business. It's part of his prescribed therapy."

The friendly banter brought the circle of 'Bob's Movers' together around the counters of the kitchen. Rudy probably wasn't following, but Rita appeared to be getting every word. She didn't actually know what the relationship between Bob and Trula really was. Rudy had tried to explain how the business worked and who was who, but if he had attempted to describe Bob as the boss, the picture in front of her offered an apparent contradiction. She said something in Romanian to Rudy, which prompted a guffaw and caused everyone to turn to them as the Bob and Trula show paused for poured shots of Wisers.

Rudy put on an embarrassed grin, then shrugged. "Rita asks, if, uh, we are always this drunk, or just now? In old country, most workers stay drunk at all times."

The entire kitchen, now including Alex and Leena and Sam, broke down laughing together. Even Rakesh let go of his stiff aplomb to join-in while warming a pot of chunky pakora sauce on the stove. He couldn't quite figure out how insults became endearments once well-lubricated with alcohol, but he knew that the crew was having a lot more fun together since Trula joined. He considered that women, perhaps could serve a useful role outside the home. At least in Canada.

The solitudes of the distinct party crowds eventually broke down, with the help of Rakesh's spicy foods and the antique cooler of beers on ice, deemed on-the-house to all by Alex, as he moved around the crowd offering liquid fire-extinguishers to everyone who loaded too much hot stuff on the oven-warmed naan-bread dippers.

Rakesh attempted to steer newbies towards the milder mint and fruit dips but most, being pretty drunk or stoned, didn't heed his advice. Screaming and dancing around started in the kitchen and continued to the increasingly loud music in the living room. If asked, he might also have told them that beer was a poor choice to accompany spicy food, as it washes away the natural defense of saliva—stoking the fire, rather than putting it out. But, expletives aside, everyone loved his food, so he was very happy.

Trula was having such a great time that she almost didn't notice Richard's absence. It finally struck her as a cold shiver cutting through the warmth of her party fun. She couldn't be sure, but she was certain that he was already there before when she hauled her sorry ass out front. Now the digital readout on the stove said that it was ten plus a big number. She had been up by then; he had come over to offer one of his helpful pills. She appreciated the offer but couldn't accept during her forced abstinence. They had talked about how much they both loved Doc Lana. She couldn't tell him what was going on, but she did assure him that it was temporary. She was on the right prescription; it would all work out. He was confused, but said, "OK."

Yeah, he was here long ago, before. Shit, where was he now? The shiver came again. Was he out stepping on butterflies?

She had the feeling that he was especially important to the order of things in this reality. There was no way that he could affect the lottery outcome, but was there something else that needed to happen? Or was it something that already happened?

Alex came back to the kitchen after making another round of the crowd. He was bringing empties back to the boxes now, having given up on the beer handouts as the supply dwindled down. Most people were also drinking their own BYOB cans or bottles, so there was no real danger of the bar going dry.

He leaned in, now shouting to be heard over the music and loud gab. "Thinking its time to wind a few people down or they'll be driving the porcelain bus pretty soon. Or the front lawn, more likely."

He had chilled some water bottles along with the beers. He grabbed a couple and was heading back out before Trula grabbed him.

She shouted, "Hey, did you hear from Richard, er, Larvie? Thought that he was coming. I wanted to thank him for his referral to Doc Lana."

Alex tipped his head in some confusion, losing his grin for first time in a while.

He shouted back, "Larvie? Really didn't expect to see him here tonight."

He pulled her towards the quieter end of the kitchen before continuing in a slightly lower voice. "He's been having a lot of trouble staying straight lately. Bob stays in touch, hoping for a recovery, I guess, but it's been a while since he fell off the wagon again. How do you know him?"

Now Trula was confused. She responded, "Richard worked with us a couple of days back. He's been on the crew all week. He got me my new doctor. What are you talking about? Are there two people named Richard?"

Alex shook his head. "No, Larvie is the only Richard I know. No-one uses his first name—just Larvie. He's an addict with good intentions, sometimes, but no determination, far as I know."

He tipped his head again. "How do you know him again? He hasn't worked with us in weeks."

She frowned. "No, that's not right. He was out to the packing job on Tuesday. He booked my doctor's appointment. He uses light meds for his PTSD, but he's no addict. We have to be talking about two different people."

Alex shook his head and held up a finger. He moved over to where Bob was holding court with Rennie, Leena and Sam. Leena and Sam were hugging each other and giggling uncontrollably. A joint had gone around the kitchen recently. Rennie was just shaking her head. Alex apologized to the group and dragged Bob by the shoulders over to talk to Trula.

When he finally had him facing her and paying attention, he put his hand on his arm and leaned in close to talk to him seriously—he still had to shout.

"Hey Bob, serious question for a second. What's up with Larvie right now? He hasn't been out to work, far as I know, but Trula thinks that she met him on the job."

Bob rolled both his head and his eyes. He barked back, "Fuckin Larv is a work-in-progress that keeps fallin off the bench. Hard as we try, and both you and me have tried plenty, we haven't got his number figured out yet. In his current condition, can't bring him out to work at all. Try again soon enough though—maybe get him into rehab one more time—no givin up. But fuckin sad, that story. A veteran and he gets nothing but the shit-end of the stick."

He paused, then drained his drink. "Why are we talking about this downer tale anyway in the middle of a great party?"

Trula was dumbfounded. She now shouted, "I invited him tonight."

Bob frowned. "Not sure how ya got a hold of him, but coulda tol ya he wouldn't show. Unless maybe there was a bowl of free coke or tabs in the middle of the room. But then he wouldn't be much of a party guest, more likely make a good doorstop."

Trula felt the floor drop and knew some butterflies were already dead. "So, I haven't worked with him or even met him?"

Alex and Bob both grunted. "Nope."

She needed some time and a clear head to think through what this change meant. The noisy party wasn't the place to do it.

She stopped Alex as Bob wandered off to regale another clutch of drunks.

It's not possible. "He got me my new doctor, didn't he?"

Alex frowned again. "No. She was a favour-owed referral from Aarav at the back door. You forgetting that? Doc Lana sometimes sends street kids with no health card over there. They give them something on her account, to keep them away from street drugs. Try to anyway. She saw you yesterday because Aarav booked you in."

Trula blinked in disbelief. She realized that she hadn't just slipped back in time, but had also crossed into another reality. This one was so close in every possible detail that she had been fooled into thinking nothing had changed. Clearly something had. But was it just Richard? Had more people and things changed as well? She was too drunk to think clearly, but needed some space to deal with the difference.

"Need to pee." She headed for the bathroom, her place of arrival, just to get some more or less quiet space to try to think and to grieve for poor Richard. How could her small step back have destroyed someone else's life?

In the bathroom, she considered her image in the mirror. She showed the effects of several hours of partying on top of her meds: bleary reddening eyes, sweaty skin, mussed-up hair and a weary slump in her shoulders from standing for three hours. But she was the same. Nothing at all had changed in her. How could Richard be so different? That they had never actually met in this space was just as difficult to deal with. She had great memories of working with him and of talking to him just hours ago. Apparently, that was all fiction now. The man existed, he was desperately ill and pretty much down and out. From what Bob said, he was dangerously close to the edge of never coming back—maybe he would end up dead in the street. She couldn't believe that it happened and worse, that it was her fault. Tears finally broke through the façade of control she had been hiding behind.

By the time she came up out of her stupor and splashed water in her face to clear both sweat and tears, the party was starting to wind down. The office crowd was decamping to a bar somewhere. People were hanging-out, waiting for rides while grabbing the last of their beers and snacks. Everyone was in a great mood. It had been a successful night. Except that it hadn't. For her alone, it was a disaster.

Trula realized that she hadn't caught the TV news and had no idea if she was a millionaire or not. It didn't matter. She'd destroyed a friend's life. There could be no celebration anyway.

She remembered her original desire to be sitting with her new best friends when the draw number was announced. She would have waved the ticket and jumped up screaming. They all would have been screaming. The little gathering would have been the very best way to bring a lot of joy into all their lives.

Instead she had endured a noisy drunk with two dozen people, most of whom she didn't know. Her gang was hanging around, but the spectre of the absent Richard would haunt her for the rest of the night. He was suffering for her benefit. Every day she would wonder how many other lives she had fucked up. She just wanted to disappear to her room and end this miserable day.

### Chapter 19 – R.01 – Recovery

After finally getting off the ambulance gurney and onto a narrow bed farther up the crowded hallway, Trula was sliding back into rough shape. Any small effect she felt from the street drugs was first muted by the Naloxone and then completely killed-off by the hours-long wait in the ER. She needed to get home to take some real drugs.

Alex stood by her—there were no chairs. He was struggling to be positive. "Shouldn't be long now. Sad to say, but I've done this before. Street kids tend to be here pretty often. Came close myself once or twice." He was looking down, shuffling through memories. "Doesn't end well for most addicts."

He continued, "You'll get blessed by a resident doc and booted-out with a tiresome lecture about not using shit that you don't know. They used to harp about quitting drugs all together and getting help. No-one listened so they gave up trying. Now they just tell you not to find your way back here or to the morgue downstairs."

He shook his head and squeezed her hand. "Sorry, that was a dumb thing to say. But you will promise him and then you'll promise me that you'll never touch that shit again. Please."

Trula wasn't in much of a mood to make any promises. She had been completely off her meds for close to a day and a half and was in a lot of pain.

She moaned, then whispered, "Just get me home where I can take a couple of my prescription pills; then let me sleep for about a day. After that we can talk about this whole screw-up. But I do promise. We'll crush the street pills together. Never touch them again."

As predicted, the actual dismissal was quick and blunt. The resident looked at a chart, looked at her and said something like, "Ambulance rides aren't free". Then she told her to get out—there were really sick people waiting for the bed.

Alex tried a small laugh after the doctor turned away and moved on. "Bedside's definitely going downhill. Guess they've given up on any sort of lecture. Wonder if they'll actually send you a bill?"

The ride home was less colourful but just as silent. Trula didn't want to think about anything but she knew that she dodged a bullet. Alex would tell her more later, but she already knew that she was as good as dead before Richard jumped-in to save her. She would need to ask each of her friends for forgiveness and hope that they could put the idea of her trying to kill herself out of their head. None of them deserved this shit—she would have to accept that some might not want to forgive her.

For a moment, she wondered if she could tell Alex the whole story. She learned long-ago not to speak to anyone about what she could do or about what happened to her. Telling Doc Lana a fuzzy story of disconnection was as close as she had come without disastrous results. She came away from that conversation with a new medical term: "disassociation"; maybe that could be a door-opener for explaining her condition to Alex.

She imagined her side of the conversation. "I disassociate. It means that I step out of reality. It's an actual medical condition, I swear. I can just step off the world for a while and step back on in a different space. Get it?"

She'd continue explaining when he didn't get it. "Believe it or not, I found out that the street pills let me repeat time, or should have, if I had done it right. I was gonna win the lottery, because I already knew the number. Neat, eh? Passing out was just a screw-up in taking the wrong pill or maybe taking them in the wrong order. Who knows? It was a lark. Didn't work. Ha-ha. Won't do that again for sure, but can't say whether I'll ever jump realities again. Never say never, eh?"

She couldn't imagine his side of the conversation. She could imagine him heading out the door and not coming back. Disassociating would need to remain her secret.

They got home in the middle of the night. The party remnants were still strewn about. She guessed that nobody had been in much of a mood for a cleaning spree. Leena was nowhere in sight but her bedroom door was closed, so she could be in or out. Had she hooked up with her friend? What was her name again? Sam? Everything going through her head said her behaviour and crash-out were the only things that anyone would remember. Her idea for a gathering of friends to celebrate her big win now seemed like a child's fantasy that never had any chance of coming true. She was still poor, still an addict, about to be homeless and now probably pretty-much friendless as well. She just wanted to drop some drugs and sleep for days.

Alex knew that they wouldn't talk about anything more until she was in better shape. He understood that she made a stupid mistake, but that ending to the night didn't provide any explanation for her decision to stop all of her meds, just in time to be painfully strung-out during a party that she had demanded happen that very night. Everyone was confused about the entire episode. The overdose was just the final kicker. If they were going to figure this out, he and lots of other people would need an explanation that made sense.

Leena had never said anything specific, but he certainly got the impression from her that Trula was unpredictable, particularly when she was either very high or very low. Thinking about it now, this behaviour sounded like a bipolar affliction. Trula didn't seem ill, but maybe now he was seeing the swing from high—when she was enthused about everything, to low—when she put herself in day-long agony. Was it all a sympathy ploy? Was he just falling for half of her real personality? He thought that he needed her in his life. He wasn't sure that he needed the pain of bringing someone with severe mental illness back from the brink—maybe over and over again. He would never let a friend down; but he wasn't sure about being a distressed addict's lover.

He helped Trula to the bathroom and then stood discretely half out the door while she did her business and washed both the sweat of the night's events off her face and the smell and God-knows-what hospital germs off her hands. He walked her to the bedroom until she sat on the bed. The mess of the EMS intrusion was still all around, but she didn't care.

She giggled, for some reason finding this final page of the episode funny. "You're not going to undress me sir—unless of-course, you plan to hump a near-dead druggie."

Alex frowned, but got the point that she wasn't helpless. "Guess that wouldn't be a wise thing. Might ruin my chance to be prime-minister one day."

She laughed, "Nah, you could pay me off to shut-up. I wouldn't say anything for a while. I'd wait until you were elected to come back for the big bucks."

They shared a quiet smile. Maybe they shared the feeling that this could be fixed.

She finally spoke up. "How about getting me a glass of water, then watching as I take two very-legit and very-effective pills from my little pack here with the doctor's name all over it. I'm behind schedule, for some stupid reason." She shrugged. "But, I can catch-up."

He left to fetch the water. She stripped off her clothes and tossed them in the corner, planning never to wear them again. She rummaged in a drawer and found a well-worn nightshirt. Alex would sleep beside her later. Maybe much later, she could lose the shirt. Right now, all she wanted was oblivion. She used her cuticle clippers to get rid of the hospital's corpse-identifier wrist band.

Alex watched her take the pills, then actually tucked her in. To her it was a sweet gesture. To him, it was a way to stay standing, fully dressed and to leave the room.

He said, "I'll be in. Gonna pick up a little and make sure that any open booze is dumped out. No sense waking up to a beerhall stench."

He really wanted to clear the place of any trace of the night's crisis. He'd get to the bedroom last to quietly pick up, after she was asleep. He hoped to find the remaining street pills. He would happily crush them himself.

She was already fading and only mumbled, "Take your time, I won't know the difference."

Next morning for Trula came well after lunch for most people. Bob had signalled the one-day delay for work to the crew, long before the crisis hit. Alex had logged it, if not Trula. Not that she would have been able to go to work anyway. Sunday's shift was now a question mark, both for her recovery and for Bob's confidence in having her on the job.

Leena was up early. She put the final touches on Alex's cleaning well before he was up. Alex greeted her mid-morning; neither said much about the night before. Leena didn't say anything about how she had finished the night.

She asked. "How is she?"

Alex shrugged, "Fine, I think. Still to be determined when she gets up. I think that her break from meds for a day was harder on her than the shit pills themselves. Narcan creates a suddenly sober state, with all the pain coming right back. She was empty going into that and came out in pretty rough shape."

He paused, maybe considering how much he should share. "Anyway, she got back on her prescribed meds last night and is likely going to be fine."

He paused again, then added, "She says it was a mistake. Wrong pills after being off her meds. Guess the reaction was the same as anybody else running into that shit. She's lucky in that sense."

Leena considered the explanation, then nodded. "Thank God for Larvie. Did I get his name right?"

Alex nodded too. "Yeah. Corporal Larvie until recently. Richard, but he never uses it. He's a great guy. Seen some rough places, mates with PTSD and all that, but he's certainly the one you want around in a crisis. He didn't hesitate."

Leena didn't comment on the "accident" explanation. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't? Maybe it was an unplanned outcome for a planned escapade. Trula was better lately, but she had done some crazy stuff before, with equally crazy explanations. Her final thought was that she had made the right decision to get out, before she came home to a dead roommate one day.

She had to head out. There was at least a day or two of backlog work in her office that would take her mind off last night's disaster and off her cool parting with Sam. That might have gone differently had Trula not stolen the show, again. She'd have to try again somewhere down the road or maybe not. It was a piss-off.

Bob checked in with Alex with a voicemail. He called him back.

Bob asked, "How'd it go last night?"

Alex guessed that he would have to go through the explanations a few times, but maybe getting the message out to the couple people that really mattered would help to break up the funk that everyone was in.

"Standard stuff. They keep you laying around for hours then boot you out in minutes. Everyone seemed to accept the drugs were contaminated with fentanyl or something similar. Still haven't got an explanation for why she had them, but getting whacked by shit packaged as lookalike meds is pretty common. Guess, I'll get the full story when she's fully recovered."

Bob grunted understanding. He could accept the explanation. "Yeah, bad news there. She still down now?"

"Sleeping it off, peacefully."

Bob had to ask, "Think that she's OK, mentally or emotionally like? You know, is her head gonna be on straight?"

Alex shrugged as he answered. "Hope so. She was so upbeat about things up until Thursday. Then the whole med-free thing put her in really rough shape. Have to understand that first. Think that the street drugs accident is a one time thing."

Bob wanted to say that he agreed, but he had been helping addicts at various stages of climbing out or falling back. Sometimes, just when you were celebrating success, the most positive guy would crash back for no apparent reason. Opioid addiction was a monkey that hung on tooth and nail.

"Well, time is your friend, eh? Give it some."

"Yeah, we'll do that."

"Uh, I'm gonna call somebody else in for tomorrow. Still love to have her back, but, you know, let her get some rest for now. See how it goes, eh?"

Alex knew that Bob couldn't afford to have an unreliable crew member when they were working under time pressure and inside the premises of an important client. Trula had earned a lot of respect quickly. Now she might be back to square one.

Trula came out of her room around noon. She hadn't dressed but wrapped her open bathrobe around the nightshirt. She had passed a brush through her hair and washed her face again. The effect was slightly-freshened bleariness. She shuffled to a kitchen chair.

"Any chance of a coffee? Maybe two or three?"

Alex got up to get the brewer going. He offered, "How about some cold OJ to start? Turns out no one was drinking vodka sunrises last night so there's a full jug still on a little ice in the cooler."

Trula nodded. "Sure, OK. Thirsty, yeah. But still put that coffee on. I'm going for sucrose and caffeine as my drugs of choice today."

It was a little joke. They had crashed with some attempted humour about the whole fuck-up, so it seemed OK to attempt a lighter approach in daylight. She would need her morning Oxy soon enough. Today, she'd give in to that need quickly and quietly.

Alex got her both juice and coffee. He also threw some bread in the toaster even though she hadn't asked for any food. By his recollection, she hadn't eaten anything since at least yesterday afternoon. People with drug problems were often skin and bones. The condition reflected their priorities.

Trula appreciated it all. She waited until she had both the juice and some coffee in her before talking while she buttered her toast.

"Guess I should repeat my apologies for yesterday. To you first, then I'll have to make the rounds."

Alex didn't say anything. If there was more to know, he could wait to hear it. He didn't want to coax or suggest, the explanation had to come from her.

When she didn't say any more, he finally said, "People just want to know that you're OK. No explanation needed, except to me, just so that I understand. There's no judgement, everyone will just want to help, where they can. Up to you if you want it."

He paused then continued, "I think I know how you overdosed. That contaminated shit was probably a nasty surprise. But I still don't get the day-long break from your prescribed pills. Seems like that's the real issue—something you can't do. You don't need me to tell you, but if you took your prescribed meds earlier, you would have been in better shape and, obviously, would never have gone near the street drugs. I still don't understand why you did that."

He was laying his cards on the table. Her behaviour was so strange that there had to be a better explanation. Trula recalled her earlier thought about just spilling the entire story: her abilities, her hunch that she could use the street pills to win the lottery, her need to repeat her depleted state of a week ago, her hope that nothing at all would happen, except that she'd get a do-over on the evening. Now it all sounded like lunacy. She couldn't tell the truth with any hope of being believed.

After a long silence, while she was thinking and Alex was wondering, she finally replied, "I can't explain it. Like I said last night, I had a feeling that going off the Oxy for a full day would lead to a much better outcome. I know it sounds really dumb now, but I was absolutely convinced it would all pay-off yesterday."

Alex blinked. "Pay-off? How? I don't get that part. You said Mrs. Heung told you to do it?"

Trula shook her head, the day before was rife with blank spots in her memory. "Did I say that? No, I fibbed, I guess. It was just my idea. A dumb one, but mine."

Alex was still a little pissed. "Then when you finally gave in to the pain, you chose fucking street drugs over the legit pills a doctor gave you only two days ago? None of this makes any more sense today that it did last night."

Trula shrugged. "So maybe I had a mental break or something? Maybe had some notion that I should use them up. Thought they were fine. I'm sorry, but I can't explain it any better."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Neither wanted to fight so just letting things go seemed like the only way out of the mess.

Alex's phone message indicator interrupted the silence. He checked the message; it was from the back door pharmacy.

He stood. "It's Aarav. I'm gonna call him. Think that something's up over there."

He called, probably surprising Aarav with the promptness, but then wandered out the front door to the porch for the conversation. Trula couldn't help but think that his choice to separate was an indication of their trust slipping away. Maybe the brothers heard about her crash and now he would have to explain one more time. Alex should know that he could talk about anything in front of her. Now he felt he needed to be private. She couldn't help but worry.

He came back in. "I've got to go. Little problem over at the pharmacy needs my help."

He didn't offer any details. Trula wondered why Alex was getting the call, but just shrugged. Whether he really needed to go or just wanted to be away from her for a while really didn't matter. She'd be here alone in either case.

Finally sitting by herself, she couldn't resist looking up the winning Lotto7 number on her phone. Of course, it was exactly as she remembered it. That part she had crystal clear. She hadn't gone anywhere. This was tomorrow—that was last night. The website told her that there was no big winner. The grand prize pot would roll over to next week.

For brief seconds, she considered whether it might be worth trying again next week. She had no idea why the street tabs hadn't worked as before, but she still had seven of the ten pills. She would need to go through the painful withdrawal again, but this time there wouldn't be a party. It now seemed pretty likely that she could easily be all alone if she chose to try. She shook her head. It was a dumb idea for the second time and she couldn't think that far ahead anyway.

She realized that she had gambled the stake that she built up over the last two weeks and lost it on a stupid all-in bet. She still had Alex, she hoped; he wasn't lost yet, but he might be slipping away. Her working relationship with Bob and the crew was toast. She proved herself capable and reliable for the first time in her life, but gave it all up in a moment of stupidity and, maybe, greed. That gone-job now fell into the bin with every other one she'd ever blown-up.

Leena wasn't ever going to be her best friend, but they had made some progress towards re-establishing a good relationship thanks to the small steps in her recovery. Now all Leena would think of when she saw her was the terror in the next bedroom. Plus, she'd have to respond to the story over and over at work, being embarrassed and maybe ashamed every time she did.

She didn't know if Doc Lana would kick her out of her clinic if she learned about the street drugs, but without a job, she probably wouldn't be able to afford her prescription tabs anyway. Without money, she was headed to a very bad place.

She hadn't consciously tried to kill herself last night, but maybe unconsciously she had walked out on a ledge that she knew was too narrow to hold her. She knew that the drugs were tainted and that they did something weird. Assuming that it was only the displacement in time wasn't just dumb, it was self-destructive. She could see why her friends had jumped to the conclusion of suicide so easily. She wore the potential for self-destruction like a fluorescent banner every moment of her life. Regardless of how good any possible future might have been, she would have pissed it all away again anyway. This route was just a lot quicker.

Now a productive thought actually crossed her mind. Leaving it all was a simple as taking the rest of the street pills. It would be painless. She just needed to be sure she was alone with no rescuers around. Her departure would free everyone up to get on with their life without the weight of her around their ankle. Alex would probably try to scrape together money for a funeral, but maybe her parents would cover that, as their way of buying some forgiveness for abandoning their daughter. Alex was only into the relationship a couple weeks—he'd be sad, but would recover. Her brother should feel fucking guilty that he was such a jerk to her for so many years, so no tears there. Anyone else who knew her would probably just shrug and say, "Saw that coming."

On that thought she gave into her aches and went back to the bedroom to take a legit 40 and hit the sack again. A little sleep was a cheap alternative to the big sleep and would do for now.

### Chapter 20 – R.02 – Unbelievable

As the party finally petered-out well after midnight, Alex got Trula a sparkling water and suggested that they both hydrate a bit in anticipation of the next day's hangover. Neither was particularly drunk after tapering an hour earlier, but the combined effect of a long night of beers, shots, and the odd toke, had the potential to roll over into a painful recovery on Saturday morning.

Bob wisely gave the crew the next day off, which he said was for their benefit, but which he would clearly appreciate himself when he came-to sometime tomorrow. Rennie led him out around one, with a promise that she would be the only driver for the next twenty-four hours.

Leena and Sam left early for a nightcap somewhere away from the house. Their eventual destination wasn't clear, but the amount of body contact suggested that it was one of their bedrooms or maybe a hotel room.

As she left, Leena winked and said, "I've got my key—I'll tip-toe back in. Don't wait up." She grinned and added, "Thanks."

When they were alone, Alex admitted something. "You know I thought the party was a dumb idea before today, eh?"

They were sitting together, touching but not entwined. He leaned forward to turn to her.

She met his eyes. "Dumb or just inconvenient?"

Trula was finally starting to get over the shock of finding out about Richard's condition in this reality. She promised herself that she would try to help him, even if she would be a complete stranger butting-in to his life. Alex and Bob had good intentions. They sounded frustrated, tired, and possibly impatient. Maybe the three of them working together could find a solution. She parked her worry there. She'd get back to them and to the problem when she could actually do something about it.

Alex wasn't going to risk an argument. She had gone a little subdued suddenly, right in the middle of the party. She was back now—whatever was bothering her either walked out the door or was no longer an issue. Maybe both. He wondered if there was more tension with Leena than he knew about.

He finally responded, "Inconvenient is better, yeah. You know: the invite was quick; who knew if anyone would come; Leena, whose house it also is, wasn't on-board; you, er, we really couldn't afford it. All that stuff combined could have been a problem. I'll admit now that this was one of the best times we've had in a while. We all work together and hang-out, but never really let it all go and just have fun."

She looked at him seriously. "So, I'm waiting."

He grinned. "For an apology, I'm guessin?"

She nodded, putting on a fake pout.

He leaned in for a quick kiss to fix that. Nuzzling her neck, he whispered, "OK—you're a genius. I'm sorry that I doubted your intuition and your good intentions."

He leaned back. "But you still have to tell me why this night was so important. A week later would have made more sense—you have to admit that. So why tonight?"

Trula had another opportunity to admit to her whole plan. There was a smartphone sitting on the coffee table that could tell her right now if she had won the lottery. That result would be all she'd need to demonstrate that she knew what she was doing. He'd have to accept her abilities. No win and she could just bluff her way out. She stared at it for a full ten seconds, considering.

Finally, she spoke, "Well, I could tell you the truth but, like they say in the movies, then I'd have to kill you because it's a state secret. How about, this evening, the moon and stars were in perfect alignment? I had a fortune-teller predict great things if the party came off tonight. Tomorrow we may die. We should live each day as if it's our last. I had a hunch that something special could happen tonight. Leena and Sam maybe? Plus, who knows what shape I'll be in next week. Be spontaneous, said Emmerson. Today may have been my best day ever. And...I'm pretty sure I won a free play with my lottery ticket, so I had to go for it while my luck held."

Alex rolled his eyes and shook his head. "So, you're not going to tell me then?"

She grinned. "Nope."

He got it. She was a woman with a secret. It would come out, or not, when she was good and ready to tell him.

He gave her his best evil eye. "How about we get up from here, go into the bedroom and we'll see if you can hold out while I apply my special persuasion skills?"

She laughed. "We'll see who can hold out. Pretty sure that I can turn those tables without too much effort."

The big question and the big answer were forgotten in twenty minutes of all-business screwing that left them both exhausted and, finally, dead asleep.

Saturday morning dawned sunny. Alex rolled out mid-morning to put the coffee brewer on, then came back for some contented snuggling. Trula knew that she would need a tab soon, but that was as it was supposed to be. She promised herself that she would stay on the schedule Doc Lana had given her. She planned to do whatever it took to get back on an even keel and to get as healthy as she could.

They were both up, still a little bleary and only slightly hungover, sipping their first coffees in the kitchen, when Leena came out of her room. She normally emerged fully-dressed, unless she was on the way to the shower. This time she was wearing her housecoat over some previously unseen silky-looking PJ's and not on the way to the shower. She was tousled, but looked happier than at anytime in the last few weeks.

She grinned, asking. "Enough coffee for a couple more cups?"

Trula and Alex got the inference with raised eyebrows. She and Sam came back to her bedroom last night.

Trula laughed. "Thinkin that's just about how I announced that this lout was in my bedroom a few days back. A good night then?"

Leena nodded. "You might say that. Although I'm not sure how much sleep we really got, after we sobered up. Guess I need really need that bigger bed."

Alex was keeping mum. There was no part of this conversation that he could add anything to. But they were all sharing the flat right now, so there was no space for embarrassment.

He finally offered, "Anybody up for breakfast? I'm ordering."

Trula and Leena each shook their head. Trula groaned, "After last night's pig-out, I'm not eating for a week."

Alex had been looking for an excuse to let the women get on with whatever they needed to do in the morning without a man hanging around.

He shrugged. "OK then. I'm just going to the Variety for some bagels. I need the air anyway. You can indulge or not as you choose when I get back."

He grabbed his phone and started to slip on his shoes from the pile behind the door.

He stopped before leaving. "Hey Cynth, want me to check your lottery ticket while I'm there?"

She frowned. Had she said something about her ticket last night? She knew that she'd come close to telling the entire story, but now drew a blank.

"My ticket?"

Alex laughed. "Drunk again. You said that's why you wanted to have the party last night, remember?"

Trula was still confused. How much had she said? Had she been so stoned that she spilled the beans? Had he believed her?

Alex continued, "You were sure that you won a free ticket or something. I can check it for you."

Now she remembered their final conversation before bed. Nothing tricky—it had been a little joke.

"Nah, I'll go over myself later. Old Well will want to congratulate me and I have to check in to show my progress with the herbal fix he gave me. That will take a little freshening up or he'll be doubling my dose. Besides, you can't do anything with the ticket, I signed it...like I always do...when I buy a ticket...which is mostly never."

She had to shut up. The ticket and what, if anything, it won was her business for now. It needed to stay that way until she was ready to do something with it.

Alex came back a judicious forty-five minutes later, which allowed each of the women to catch a shower and to find a look that they wanted to present to the world on a lazy, slightly-hungover Saturday. The fresh bagels bought him his re-entry to the women's klatch, but not to inclusion in the laughing recollections of last-evening's drunken and stoned missteps.

Sam wasn't embarrassed to be joining the household trio after clearly spending the night as Leena's lover. Whether it was a lark or the start of something more remained to be seen, but she was relaxed and already appeared to be comfortable just hanging out.

She laughed, "Fuck, we've got stuff to hang over a lot of heads the next time we need to get some cooperation. Just wished that I had filmed some of the mayhem to post on the company website. The headline could be: Falling-Down Finance Team Apparently Human Afterall."

They all laughed but Leena wasn't too sure. Both getting loaded at a party and then getting laid by her best friend were outcomes that she never would have expected twenty-four hours ago.

She cautioned, "Think maybe some of those dogs should stay sleeping, which I'm sure they still are. We probably don't want to be highlighted as the other news of the day on the same page."

She realized that may have come out wrong. "Not that I mind our news at all—just not sure if I remember everything I did getting there. Uh, not too embarrassing, I hope?"

It was a question more to Trula and Alex who, as loyal wingpersons, had been nearby for most of the evening.

Trula laughed. "You two were schoolmarms compared to most of the other drunks from your office. For sure they can't remember shit this morning and probably have no clue where you went or who ended up in who's bed. Guess you could probably deny it all and get away with it, if you want to?"

She left the question hanging, uncertain if either Sam or Leena wanted to answer it right now. They both just smiled. The sleepy sexual relationship was OK for right here and right now. They needed some sober, vertical time to decide where it might go.

Trula knew that she needed to get over to Heung's sooner or later. With everything that happened, much of which clearly wasn't part of the first pass-through reality of last night, she had little hope that somehow the lottery number had remained unchanged. Three blocks away, she was still a potential millionaire. With each step she took getting over there, she would be reducing that possibility until she finally got the headshake of, "no winner," from Well. She was prepared for that. She couldn't complain, as just about every other thing in her life seemed to be going perfectly this morning. But she still needed to go over and find out all on her own. The uncertainty would take up an increasing part of her focus until she did.

Alex gave her the opportunity when he took a phone call and announced that he had to go out. "No big deal, but some problems over at the pharmacy. Boys need someone to mind the store, so to speak, for a little bit."

He turned to Trula. "Want to come along for some fresh air?"

She tipped her head back and forth as if considering, then declined. "Much as I appreciated that place in the past few months, I'm happy to no longer be a customer. Give Aarav and Ragge my regards. Hope there's no problem with the folks we met a few nights back."

Alex laughed. "No, I understand that those clowns were given the bum's rush out of town. Local law probably told them to piss-off and not to disrupt a service that is keeping a lot of kids off street shit."

Trula nodded. Street shit was what got her here and what might still make her rich. But she knew that she was very lucky to have hit on something that only bounced her around in the universe instead of killing her. Others weren't so lucky.

Alex grinned and, true to form, departed with a compliment to each of the women that left them grinning.

Sam said, "Don't know where you found him, but he's a keeper. Most guys would tell us to go do something with our pajamed selves. If I weren't otherwise inclined, I'd jump on those bones."

Trula scowled in fake possessiveness. "Well, he's taken...I hope. We're just a couple weeks in, but you're right, he's a gem. I'm going to do everything I can to earn his trust and, maybe, eventually, loyalty. As Leena may tell you, I'm a problem as a lover or as a friend for a lot of reasons. Alex seems to be the solution I need. Fingers crossed."

Leena was also trying to figure out how their situation had gone from completely fucked-up last week to apparent normalcy and maybe hopefulness this week.

She offered, "Small steps seem to be the way to go. Grand schemes are prone to grand failures." As soon as she said it, she wondered if it sounded like a criticism of Trula's efforts. She added, "Excuse the philosophy; probably read that on a lunchroom poster somewhere. Anyway, I'm taking small steps right now back to bed for a little nap to recover some missing sleep. A day off is so amazing that I'm playing it for all its worth."

She smiled at Sam and winked at Trula. Sam joined her as they headed for her room.

Once she was alone, Trula had time to reflect on how perfect things actually were. Had Leena sensed something else was up with her comment? She wondered if desiring something more deserved one of those: "Careful what you wish for," cautions. She briefly considered just ripping up her Lotto7 ticket. The hospital fund or whatever the province claimed to do with the money would just get a little extra this go-round. A drop in the big bucket sure, but not like it went back to the Premier's fat-cat friends. Or did it? She guessed that she could give it away just as effectively to people that she knew could use it. Finally, she decided that she had to go check it out.

She dug her pack out from its safe stash under her bed. She remembered jamming it way under there just before dropping the street pills last night. Now it was barely tucked in, only where she had kicked it when she came back from Heung's last night. She knew that the ticket was in one zippered pocket. The other front pocket held the street pill pack. How many tabs it held would be one more confirmation that she had fallen back in space, rather than just dreaming the whole thing.

She unzipped the pocket and pulled out the pack. There, on the foil back was the little ink smudge. The foil was unbroken. Turning it over, the pills were all there, each in its own little plastic bubble. Same as the last time she checked it. She considered the weird possibility that as long as she had these pills, she could punch out three and get a redo of four or five hours of her life anytime she needed it. But these were death-dealers that shouldn't have any place in her life. Sure, she was back on prescription meds right now, but she had been before, too. Things had come apart more than once; they could come apart again. Having these pills anywhere nearby might mean that she would try one of the other seven in the pack in a moment of withdrawal desperation. The entire pack had to go. She committed herself to tossing it in the garbage out front of the Variety, as soon as she came out after checking her ticket.

She put the pills back and unzipped the other pocket. There was her ticket, duly signed and waiting. She'd read somewhere that you should keep your own record of a winner before handing the ticket over to anyone. Seemed like a good idea to prevent a switchero. Plus, God knows she could get mugged on route to the store. Her luck was usually that bad.

She found her phone and, after some trial and error, she figured out how the camera worked. She held up the ticket beside her face and snapped off several selfies. Then, she took close-ups of both the front and back. She was about to jam her phone back in her pack when she realized that that wasn't a solution to being mugged. The phone would go, too. She'd survived one crisis in the past week by jamming her pills into her underwear. That would probably work again, although it might be hard to explain if she needed to pull it out in public, like for some celebration pictures. But she'd deal with that later. As little likelihood of a winner there actually was.

She got dressed, stashed her phone in her crotch, zipped up the backpack pockets, each with its own weird contents, and headed out.

At Heung's, Saturday morning was in full swing. The Variety stocked fresh breads, as Alex had already sampled. There was a nice selection of stuff like tea, coffee or spreads. Plus, there was an amazing stock of eastern specialties. It wasn't a deli by any stretch, but was the kind of place some neighbourhood folks came to for a paper, coffees and danishes, many obviously still in their pajamas, with a coat tossed on. Although as the younger generation seemed to wear PJ bottoms all the time, it was hard to tell who was just stumbling in or who was heading out for their day. Trula was glad for the small crowd as it allowed her some time to calmly breathe before she needed to present her ticket to Well.

Eventually he picked her out of the crowd and, true to form, waved her up in front of several others patiently waiting to be served.

"Ho, hi Ms Trula. Looking very good today. Get laid last night?" He said the joke line loud enough to embarrass her. Several customers turned to her to see what her response might be.

She relaxed a little and grinned. "Twice, as you're asking. Got anything for sore lady parts?"

Now Well was embarrassed. He needed to backpeddle quickly to get out of this conversation.

"Uh, guessing maybe Angelica good for that too. Never tried myself and Mrs., uh, she not need for long time. So, can't help you there."

She held up her the ticket to him. "I'm betting I got a replay on this one. Can you check?"

Well ran so many tickets through the machine that he barely needed to look at the feeder before slotting the ticket in. Immediately, the machine lit up and its magic voice announced: "Winner! Gagnon!" as if anyone in the place needed to hear it in two languages.

Well smiled. "Oh, looks like you is a winner. Let's see what you got."

He leaned into the machine and stared at the display for a full five seconds before he finally figured out what he was looking at. No one in his store had ever won more that a couple grand in any lottery draw. Now he decoded that all seven numbers matched the winning number sequence. This was the big winning ticket.

He sputtered in Korean, then shouted in English. "Holy shit—all numbers match—you big winner. Grand prize, maybe. Big prize for sure."

He kept repeating, "Holy shit, holy shit', as he slowly handed the ticket back. Then he yelled in Korean for his wife and started jumping up and down.

Before Trula could do anything, he announced to the store, "She win! Biggest prize! Maybe twenty million!" Turning to her he said, "Ms Trula, you be rich for sure."

He came around the counter to hug her just as Mrs. Heung arrived from the back thinking maybe a robbery was in progress. She was carrying a frying pan ready to fight for the couple twenties in the cash drawer. Well screamed at her in Korean. Then, much to Trula's surprise, Mrs. dropped the pan with a loud clank and jumped into the hug. They danced up and down in a tight circle.

Trula was numb through it all, but found herself being danced around in a circle. She had hoped for a quiet in and out trip, but now the cat was out of the bag. She had to laugh and join in. The fucking plan had worked.

The store went from silence to a loud buzz as one customer after another passed on the news that a big Lotto7 winner was in the store. At first, no-one seemed to believe it, but eventually everyone was shouting and jumping around with them. Trula was still dumbstruck. She clutched the ticket in a death grip in her left hand while getting pats on the back and congratulatory handshakes to her right hand. Over the noise of the celebration, they almost didn't hear the telephone ringing behind the counter.

Well eventually broke off the hug and went back behind the counter to answer the phone.

"Hello."

"Mr. Heung?"

"Yes, busy now, call back later." He hung up the phone.

Almost immediately, it rang again.

A little annoyed he answered it again. "Hello, said call back. Much later."

A loud voice on the other end demanded, "Don't hang up. It's the lottery calling."

He brought the phone back to his ear. "Who?"

"The lottery corporation. You appear to have a winner there."

"How you know?"

"The computer told me."

"Oh. OK. Yes, big winner. Got all numbers. Guess she best winner ever."

"You ran the ticket. Do you still have it?"

"She has it back."

"Ask her to come to the phone and get the ticket back. I need to ask you each a couple questions."

"Oh. OK. Hang on." He almost hung up the phone again, but then just let it drop on the counter with a clunk.

The store was still in an uproar as more customers entered and discovered what happened. Everyone wanted to touch the winner. Word quickly spread that she was a neighbourhood person and this was the big one. Well needed to yell at Trula to get her attention. He finally held up the phone and waved for her to come behind the counter.

When he got back on the phone the lottery agent asked him to take the ticket back and to read an additional set of small numbers at the bottom of the ticket back to him. Well did this slowly, using his best English.

The lottery agent seemed satisfied, then asked that Trula get the phone.

He said, "Congratulations. You appear to be our big winner. Can I get your name?"

The conversation went back and forth as the lottery got all of her particulars including her direct phone number. The agent asked if she would photocopy the ticket then lock it up somewhere for safety. She advised that she had already taken pictures.

"OK, then. Take a couple more with Mr. Heung, then I'd advise that you go home and secure the actual ticket away until we can make arrangements for you to come downtown with it."

Trula was still in a daze. "Uh, OK, guess I can do that if I can get my phone out of my pants."

She realized that she needed to ask, "How much did I actually win?"

The agent took a second to consult something then came back on the line. "Looks like you have the only winning ticket. Once verified, the prize should be just over twenty-two million dollars. How does that sound?"

She gasped, "Holy fucking shit! Uh, sorry, I meant that sounds great, just great. I can use the money."

The lottery person laughed on the other end of the phone. "Hope so. That's what we're here for. Be safe, protect that ticket. We'll be in touch." She disconnected.

Trula realized that she was standing there holding a dead phone receiver while about ten pairs of eyes looked at her expectantly. Did they think that she was going to start spewing twenties? Then she realized that everyone really does love a winner. Whether she deserved it or not, she was one in this moment. Later they might be jealous or might even wish her ill, but for now they were happy to pretend that the win meant something for them as well.

She grinned and announced, "All good. The party's on me when I get the cash. Back here in a couple days and you're all invited."

The group let out a cheer. She now realized that she had to get out of there but couldn't pass on a selfie first. She excused herself to Well as she turned away from the crowd to dig her phone out of her underpants. It came out warm and damp. She casually waved it in the air to dry it out before asking for a picture taker.

The first picture was of her and Well with the ticket. Then Mrs. Heung got in the picture. Eventually just about everyone in the store had their own phone out and was asking for a selfie with her and the ticket. It was all fun and people slowly drifted out once they had their snapshot. Only after about twenty pictures, did it occur to her that she had just announced that she was holding a piece of paper worth more than twenty million to the entire world and given it her picture to go with it. In moments, the pictures would be all over social media. She couldn't just walk home now.

When the crowd had mostly departed, Well asked her again how she picked the number. He had heard, "Family birthdays," last night. Any strategy that won would be good to know. And he knew that he would be talking about his best customer who, "Won Big," for many days to come. He'd probably sell lots more tickets too. Trula was still in a daze and forgot her earlier explanation.

Before she could stop herself, she said, "Oh, I knew the winning number ahead of time."

Well scratched his head. Figuring she must be a little confused, he let it go. The birthdays strategy would have to do, for anyone asking.

She was just about out on her feet as the adrenaline started to wear off. Well called her a cab, helped her in and paid for it with a twenty. She was still stunned enough to just walk through the needed motions.

He leaned it to the driver. "Get her home, straight way. Maybe be little ill." He winked at Trula. Speaking back to the driver, he added, "You walk her to door safely please."

She was finally out of there. The ticket was in her pocket. Now, what the hell was she going to do? She forgot all about the blister pack of pills in her backpack.

### Chapter 21 – R.01 – Downhill from Here

By the time Leena showed up in the afternoon, Trula had stood under a long hot, then cold, then hot again shower. She dug out fresh clothes, dried her hair and even attempted a little make-up. To others, it might appear to be an attempt at showing a full recovery. She would look better than she had for any of the last thirty-six hours. A couple of 40's rounded off any pain she felt. On another Saturday, she might have felt about as good as she looked. Today she was still numb. Appearances, if seen-through, were a cover for the black cloud in her head.

Leena was surprised to find her alone. She asked, "Alex out for stuff?"

Trula had been sitting in the kitchen nursing another orange juice. She got up, before responding and walked over to Leena.

"No, he had to go to work too. Guess you could call it his work. Apparently, there was something up at our old, slightly-illegal pharmacy. Not sure what. They had some legal thing going on last week. Maybe more of the same. Not sure what they needed him for, but he took off pretty quick. Guess he was happy for some fresh air."

She was meandering, as she was prone to do when well-medicated. Leena let her go on, knowing it probably meant she was back on her regular meds. Maybe she bumped them a bit considering what she had been through. But she looked surprisingly good. That was something.

Leena waited for silence, then asked, "How are you doing now?"

She knew that it was an opener for some kind of story in response. Trula always had a story to explain her life decisions. After nearly killing herself last night, Leena expected a convoluted tale from her that somehow shifted blame to bad luck, to bad timing or to somebody else's screw-up.

Trula knew it was an opportunity to offer "my bad" and to ask for yet one more consideration from her roommate. She wasn't sure that she wanted to play that game any more. Asking for forgiveness and for another chance just put them back where they had been so many times. She couldn't make any of it up to Leena and was tired of trying.

She responded, "Guess what you see is what I am. I'm physically over last night's fuck-up, but really not any better or worse than I've been for a long time. Just marking time. Get up, fall down. Try a little, but always, it's not enough. So how I'm doing is OK, based on being alive and apparently undamaged. But I'm tired. I'm just so tired of this game."

It wasn't the response that Leena expected. She considered what she was hearing in light of the last couple days. She didn't really believe that Trula attempted suicide. Though it was an excuse, tainted drugs made more sense. She could buy into that, but Trula's down mood now, when she was in no apparent pain, was more worrying than her strange behaviour yesterday.

She responded, "Maybe best to just give it a couple days. Not to be too blunt, but getting resuscitated has to take a lot out of you. If you'd been hit by a truck by accident, you'd have a long recovery in lots more pain. Think that you need to treat this the same, even with no broken bones. Just ride it out for a while. You'll pick up again and now you've got Alex. He's worth the effort, even if everything else seems to be screwing up royally."

Trula put on a half-grin. Screwing up royally pretty much summed it up. She was feigning agreement while inside she heard a repeating and persuasive argument to just give up. She said, "Guess that's all I can do. Not like I'm gonna win the lottery to solve all my problems."

Leena also tried a small laugh. This was the third time that she heard Trula talk about winning the lottery. First there was her manic research blitz after last week's draw. Then last night with her supposed, "can't lose" ticket. She could see how unlimited money would sound pretty good when you had none. But winning the lottery was also what you said when someone lucked into the thing that they wished for, even if it wasn't money.

She responded, "Maybe you already did?"

Trula finally laughed, too. "Yeah, I'm sure that you're right. On another planet, I'm rich and none of this is happening. I wish."

Leena corrected, "That's not what I meant. I meant that you need to take stock of what you've got. Alex, Bob, Larvie—lots of people care about you. Me too. Things will get better. It's kind of a win, don't you think?"

Trula wasn't really in much of a mood for a pep-talk, but she appreciated that Leena was trying when she could have just washed her hands and got out of there. She wanted to let her off the hook, even if her response was a lie.

"I really do appreciate the encouragement Leena and I owe you so much. More than money, which we're still going to settle-up. You've been a good friend, when most people would have just bailed out on the needy addict. You're right—things will get better. I've learned one more lesson—the last one I need, I hope. I'll get some rest and then get back to it."

Leena nodded. They didn't normally hug, but she guessed that maybe this was a time to try one, so came over and put her arms around Trula. Other women might have cried a little, but Leena wasn't committing that kind of emotion. Trula was just acting.

After they broke off and headed to separate parts of the kitchen, Trula had one last question. "Guess your office crowd got a little more excitement than they expected. Did you connect with any of them afterwards?"

Leena shook her head. "No concern there. They all bailed after too much of the Indian food. For those that did keep going somewhere, I'm guessing after a couple rounds of shots and beers they pretty much forgot the whole evening. Sam was still here through it all, but she's alright. Think so, anyway."

Trula knew that Leena saying, "No concern," wasn't true. Now that they were both lying, she could get back to considering her bleak prospects. She headed to her room. The last thing she needed was an extended pretend conversation. Leena had seen her dead on the floor, for all intents. You didn't get over that in a few hours. She was trying to be supportive and helpful, but it was just her guess at what she was supposed to do. She was too nice. She should have been giving Trula proper shit for being such an idiot. She should be advancing her get-out-of-this-nuthouse move date up as quickly as she could. She should have been saying, "Stay the fuck away from me." But she was too nice to be honest.

Trula headed to her room. Alex might or might not come back. She actually hoped for not. A day's breathing space might be the best thing for them—best for him anyway. He must feel a lot like Leena on the inside, thinking, "What a whacked-out broad I've hooked up with. Got to get out of here." She knew that he had to be considering that. It's what any sane single guy with his prospects had to think. He could easily find another woman like her, only not crazy, not addicted and not broke. Hell, he'd probably already met her. He just needed to get free of this current, needy loser first. Well, she could help each of them with their problem.

Trula crashed on her bed with the help of the double-up pills. Leena left again, whereabouts unknown. Trula guessed her whereabouts were at her new digs. Might be one place where she wouldn't mind telling the story, if it would get her over there sooner.

Alex returned around five. His demeanor was an obvious put-on, to Trula. He had to be faking the pleasant mood. But he did have an armload of take-out food. He called out, "Hey, anybody home. Grubs here!"

Trula struggled upright when he stuck his head into her room, telling him to give her a couple minutes. When she finally came out after a half-hearted attempt at freshening up again, Alex was at the kitchen table, already dumping a portion out of a little box of maybe, pad thai, onto a plate. The food smelled delicious. In spite of her funk, she had to eat. Alex was Greek after all—in crisis they ate. Wasn't food the best distraction? She still suspected a sinister motive, but gave in. He opened another container of savory noodles and handed her some chopsticks.

"Want this one instead?" He held out his half-emptied pack. "I'm a browser, so I'll be looking for a little of everything." He cracked open flat boxes with spring rolls and some crunchy things that were probably tempura shrimp.

"Is Leena here?" He nodded towards her closed bedroom door. "I got enough for three, or maybe six, I guess, figuring she'd probably dig in too."

Trula shrugged. "Don't know. Could go kick on her door to find out, I guess. Er, no why not text her? That's more "de rigueur", right? Why walk ten feet when you can send a bunch of data halfway around the world and back to accomplish the same thing? That way she can chose to ignore us, without the threat of more violence to her precious door."

She paused, still not eating anything. "Who am I kidding? She doesn't give a crap about her soon-to-be-former landlord's door. Go crash it in if you want."

Alex's first response to the outburst was a couple of blinks. He looked at her with slightly hooded eyes. He expected that she would still be tired-out, but hoped that yesterday's moody withdrawal was all over. Trula appeared to be angry about something. He had no idea what. To a man, handling a pissed-off woman is just about as scary as a handling an exotic time bomb. Both will eventually go off with a bang and there was no hope of defusing either. Cut the red wire or the blue wire? Doesn't matter. The only real option is deciding when you want to get blown up. Helplessly watch the clock count down to zero or just cut all the wires right now? To Alex, cutting the wires was preferable to an indeterminant period of pent-up rage.

He snipped a wire. "What's up? Except that you always sleep on the same side, I'd say that you got up on the wrong side of the bed."

Trula shrugged. The lame shoulder raise was becoming her response to all inquiries. There was no point in pretending to care or in pretending to be grateful for help. Except for the fact that she was famished, she might have risen from the table and gone back to bed—on her fucking side.

Alex tried cutting another wire. He suggested, "Get some food in you. I'm a crank when I'm empty. Not that you are, but bet some food will do you good. Nail a couple of spring rolls there. Food of the gods or the ghouls, can't remember which. Screw Leena, if the aroma didn't bring her out, she's out of luck."

Trula forced a little smile in acknowledgement of his attempted humour. "You're right. I need to eat. Sorry."

She dug out some of each of the different kinds of noodles and grabbed a spring roll and a shrimp. Alex had already opened the dipping sauces. She tried to wind back her funk with several measured breaths. Then she gave herself a few silent minutes to eat. She felt like she could wolf down all of everything on the table herself, but she knew she'd probably throw it up. She limited herself to one plate, to be eaten slowly.

Unwisely, Alex interpreted the quiet period and her slightly relaxed state as the end of her bad mood. Perhaps he only hoped for that outcome, still knowing full-well that the bomb had to go off. He was out of wires to cut, but why not give the clock and dynamite combo a swift kick just to see what might happen?

He put down his chopsticks. "So, you gonna tell me any more about what's going on? Something clearly is. You're back where you were yesterday, except now I assume that you're taking your meds. There must be something I can do to help end this. You can't explain it, I get that, but give me some help in figuring out what I can do for you."

Trula had enough. There were a few bites yet to finish on her plate, so she took her time in answering, while quietly seething. She was tired, yes. Tired of pussy-footing around the truth. She had nothing to lose now, so why not just start telling people the truth—she was a freak and if they didn't like it, they could just piss-off.

Alex had poured her another orange juice. She finished that as well. There was only one way that this conversation was going to end. She would be stomping into her room and slamming the door. She wouldn't care where Alex slept or what he did next. He had his own place. Maybe it was time for him to go back there? She replayed seeing him going out the door in her head.

She looked up. "OK, I'll tell you then. Got ten minutes, because this is a long fucking story? You deserve a truthful answer. You've been good to me. I owe you a lot. I wish I could snap my fingers and make this all go-away, but I can't." She laughed at the irony of what she had said. "Well, I can, but it will only bring us all a lot more pain."

After another pause, she continued, "I wasn't kidding, I could, snap my fingers, because there's something wrong with me. It's been wrong my whole life. Don't know what my nursery school minders thought or did, but I can tell you from the time that I've had to deal with anyone in charge, like teachers or bosses, my affliction has proven to be a killer."

Alex opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a flat hand held up towards his face. "You have to wait for the whole story. You'll get your chance to tell me—although I already know what you'll say—when I'm done."

He nodded and sat back. She was running towards the same cliff that she leapt off once or twice before. He might have stopped her by sweeping her up and covering her mouth with an unbreakable kiss, but he was no prince. He was no frog either—he was just a man who was about to learn that his girlfriend was completely crazy.

She breathed deeply a couple of times and continued. "I don't tell anyone this, but ever since I was that kid in nursery school, I've had a simple solution for situations that I can't handle."

She paused again, knowing that the next words were the point of no return. Alex was waiting.

She continued, "I handle them by stepping out of them. I concentrate—the world stops turning or something and I step through a doorway into another version of the same world. I get that it sounds completely unbelievable, but for me it's always been there. Bad time in class, just step around it. Screw up on the job, just replay it the right way. Relationship faux pas, just come in the same door again with better manners"

She laughed, as she thought about it. "Fuck, as bad as this day is going, I should probably just replay your arrival and my emergence from the bedroom, but this time I come out all hot and horny, wearing next to nothing. Right now, food would be getting cold where it landed and we'd be naked in the other room. You'd be relieved that my problem had gone away. Situation normal. Until the next time."

Alex was confused. Was she talking in metaphors? Not much of what she was saying made any sense, so he hoped that it was all some sort of fable, which she would end by telling him he was such a goof for believing any of it. He wanted to speak, but her hand came up again as soon as he started to lean forward.

Trula was blowing off steam, finally. As fatal as her admission was for any future with him, the relief of her overstressed internal pressure tank felt marvelous.

She continued, "So yesterday then. You know about the street pills."

He nodded, but said nothing.

She shook her head. "What you don't know is that I've had them for more than a week. I was out of drugs back then and almost out of money. I couldn't afford the back door stuff, except a pill at a time, and it was driving me crazy. This was before we got together. I really needed something. For eighty bucks, I got a ten-pack of apparently legit Oxy from a dealer at a coffee shop. Eight bucks a pill. I should have been wary, but they looked real—he said that they were real. I was desperate."

Alex wasn't inclined to interrupt now as he was starting to get answers to some of his obvious questions.

Trula was looking down and kept going with her admission. "Anyway, I came home a week ago Friday, strung out as shit but happy enough to have the pills in my pocket. I planned to crash with them, but sat down for a bit with Leena. She was watching the late news when the Lotto7 numbers came on. She commented that the number sequence was unusual—four of the numbers were in a row, like one right after the other. We both agreed that nobody would have picked those and laughed. I bailed out and went into my room."

She caught a breath and kept going. "Somewhere in there I took one of the street pills. Nothing happened. No buzz, no pain relief, nothing. I figured that I had been ripped off by fakes. With nothing else to do I decided to just keep dropping them, hoping that maybe somewhere in the mix there was some sort of buzz. Addicts are idiots, but you already know that. I took two more."

She paused here, checking that Alex was staying with her and not interrupting. The next part would be going back to fairy-dust land for him, but it was her only explanation and she had to get it out.

She grinned briefly—it was a good story that she had wished she could tell to everyone. "Next thing I know, I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, by myself. It's four o'clock in the afternoon."

She paused to see if he got that part. "I guessed that I had been completely out of it for nearly a whole day. Really strange, but who knows what the hell is in those pills?"

He nodded. She still had him, but this was it. Belief or disbelief on his part, she had to spit it out.

"It turned out it was four o'clock on the same day. It was four hours earlier on the same fucking day!"

She knew that tears were probably coming, but kept going before he could start firing questions or suggesting other, more plausible, answers.

She checked his listening focus, pleading, "Stay with me."

He wasn't interrupting but she guessed that he was starting to come up with an argument in his head.

She just kept going. "I couldn't believe it either. Nothing like that had ever happened to me. There was no ill-effect. In fact, I was feeling sort of OK. I staggered to my feet and carried on. I didn't say anything to anybody."

She still wouldn't let him interrupt. "Wait, please. I'm not done."

She picked up the story. "So, everything is normal. Leena comes home, as normal. I scrounge some food, as normal. I'm confused, but I guessed that I must have just blacked out and lost track."

She wrinkled her brow. "Did I mention that I can't tell time, but that I can feel the earth moving through space?"

He shook his head. She continued, "Forget that for now. It's just that displacement by a few hundred thousand kilometers happens sometimes. Minor spatial shifts are understandable at the speed we're moving."

She paused, not wanting to get sidetracked. "Anyway, it isn't until the late evening news that I get the real kick in the pants. All the stories repeat with identical details. Then, get this, the same Lotto7 number sequence is drawn."

She paused here, figuring he might start to connect with last night. But he was silent. She would have to tell him when to talk now. He wasn't going to interrupt a crazy person.

She shook her head again. "I sat there in shock, realizing that I could easily have just gone to Heung's an hour earlier and bought the winning ticket—if only I had known ahead of time what these pills would do. But there was still an opportunity. Falling back was painless and I still had the fresh pack in my room. I knew what to do. Yesterday I did it."

She was now ready to let him talk. She sat back to wait for it. He heard the truth. She'd answered the "why" question. He could figure out the rest. Disbelief, accusation, stunned silence, whatever, she could wait for it.

Alex was wary of the hand coming up again, so didn't respond immediately. After several seconds of silence, when he was pretty sure that she was done, for the moment, he ventured a question.

"So, the pills you took last night are from the same pills you bought last week?"

She nodded.

He added, "But none were gone? You think, uh, you're sure that you took the same ones again last night, uh, hoping for the same result. And that the result shouldn't have been an overdose from fentanyl or whatever is in them—it should've been a jump back in time?"

She caught the implication that she just thought that was what happened, but allowed his quick correction and didn't argue.

She nodded. "That's right, sort of. I actually fell back to the hours before I got them the first time. So, I had to go buy them all over again. I had my money back. I skipped that part, but yeah, they are the same pills. Last night I memorized the Lotto7 number sequence before I dropped them. I planned to go back and get rich."

He asked a good question. "But why did you have to stop your other meds?"

She tipped her head side to side a couple times before answering. "Didn't know if it mattered, but I was strung out a week ago. I figured I needed to be again. I was trying to repeat everything exactly as it happened the first time."

He raised his eyebrows and gently asked, "You realize this makes no sense, right?"

She now saw the helpful corrections coming. When she was much younger, no-one she'd told her story to cared that much about her, so they usually just told her she was nuts. Alex would be more careful, but she knew where this was going.

She shrugged. "Didn't say that it does. It's just what happened. The piss-off is it didn't work."

Alex knew guys on the street who would tell you that they just flew in from Mars. Nobody argued with them. They believed it and would blow up if challenged. Most people trying to help just nodded, hoping to stay out of a heated argument with a dishevelled street person. They all knew that the person needed help, but also knew that the drugs that would kill the fantasy would also just about kill the person. Sometimes you just accepted the weird in people who were surviving OK otherwise.

He was stuck between two realities that had nothing to do with Trula's belief in jumping around. He could try to help her, knowing that she would probably fight against the very therapy that she needed and would probably come to hate him for trying to impose it on her. Or he could just accept her delusions, knowing that they would worsen and eventually take her away from him as she became someone he wouldn't recognize. It took him only a few seconds to decide. He had one other idea.

"Trula. I know that you don't want to hear it, but this all sounds like a dream. To me anyway, but there may be another answer."

She wasn't looking for answers, but knew that any caring person hearing her story would react by challenging her "faulty" beliefs. She shrugged again. She had tried.

She responded, "Oh, and what might that be?"

He had done a lot of drugs in his life and knew about some that could have you out conversing with parking meters pretty quick, if someone wasn't there to help manage your trip.

He asked, "Did this dealer of yours maybe give you a sample before you bought?"

She was puzzled by this tack. "No. He wasn't a free sample kind of guy. In fact, he was pretty pissed that I argued him down in price."

Alex nodded, "Yeah, but is there any possibility he slipped you something in the pack? You said that the first time you took one pill before the others with no analgesic effect. Sorry, no pain relief. I've been spending too much time with pharmacists lately."

Trula wrinkled her brow. "Yeah, so?"

Alex figured that he had one shot to leave her relieved of her funk and maybe ready to accept some further help down the road.

"I think that he slipped you some DMT or Ayahuasca. It would make perfect sense. You passed out and then tripped through a bunch of experiences that seemed to be reoccurring. "Déjà vu'" is pretty common with that stuff. So is a feeling of lost time. I know—it's happened to me. That's one reason why I don't touch it anymore. Fore sure, no one should be left on their own for that kind of trip."

Trula knew that he was blowing smoke. She knew exactly what she had experienced, but figured that maybe this was the explanation he needed to deal with what he heard while not concluding that she was completely off her nut.

She shrugged again. "I really have no idea what might be in any of the pills. Maybe you're right. Maybe I just tripped out last week. Now you know what I was trying to do, let's forget the whole thing."

Alex knew that there was more to it, but couldn't figure out how to safely go there. He heard her say that she thought she could always disconnect and fix her life. This belief still spoke to a serious psychological problem. He could help her with resources she couldn't afford herself. He figured as long as things were on the table he might as well suggest it.

He leaned in and found her hand across the corner of the table. "I have a small confession to make too. Maybe it will make you feel better about not hitting the jackpot last night."

Trula had heard him say he wanted to help a couple times. She guessed what he really wanted to do was to shift responsibility for her problems to somebody else.

She responded, "Look. Don't try to make me feel better. I'll get over it. I've thought about how stupid this all sounds. I get that. It's not something I ever talk about. Telling you was just me not ready to stop being stupid quite yet. But I can put it away. Let's just move on."

Alex now put his hand up. "Please hear me out. I have as much trouble talking about some things as you do."

She grinned. "OK then, we'll play truth or dare. But at your risk. Truth?"

He knew that he could just admit that he was already pretty rich. But then, why had he been keeping it a secret? She could easily think that he had been holding back while he judged if she would work out. She might be pissed that he had been assessing whether she was worth it. He only wanted to talk about her getting better.

He spoke tentatively. "Told you I could afford to help. Well, I can. It's sort of family money, but I can get it. It will cover what you need. If you're OK with getting some help, I can afford to get you the best around. Our family has a long history of problems with this kind of shit—we've got some good doctors."

She blinked at him, before exploding.

"Doctors? You think that I need a doctor for what, to fix my life-long delusions? To measure up to your family's standards?"

He tried to rewind. "No, not saying that at all. But you said yourself that there's something wrong with you. Since you were a kid, you said. I just meant that I could help. I, we, could get you help. Maybe it's something that can be fixed."

She was fuming. This conversation was predictable and she walked right into it. She shouldn't have even tried talking to him. He was just like all the others before him. He might stick around long enough to try to fix her, even pay for it, as he "could help". But then he'd leave. She'd be a broken vase patched up with glue in the form of some kid of nasty drugs, then stuck on a back shelf. Just as she anticipated, he would use the effort to assuage his temporary guilt for leaving her, but he would definitely leave.

A loud argument wasn't going to serve any purpose. She needed another pill.

She stood. "Tell you what. I'll think about it. Thanks for supper. I have a headache and I'm going back to bed. Maybe tonight you want to check out your own bed. Not kicking you out, but I'm so tired. I'd appreciate the break."

She turned and headed to her room. She wasn't interested in a response. He could clean up or he could just leave. She didn't care. If he came back tomorrow, maybe she'd feel different. If he didn't, well, quick was better for both of them.

Two hours later, she woke. Opioids dulled the pain, but they fucked-up her sleep. She had some herbal tea in the cupboard to help with sleeping. She considered if it was worth getting up to make some. The alternative was tossing for an hour before exhaustion caught up with her.

While she lay staring at the ceiling, her mind came back to the remaining street pills in her backpack. She fantasized about how she might take them: a couple at a time, to make sure that they stayed down. Drink some nice tea—just keep hammering them back until they were all down. It would be easy. In her room, behind a closed door, she'd already be sitting on the floor so she didn't pull any crockery down this time. She'd dress like she wanted to be found. Notes to anyone? Fuck no. Let them guess.

She already had the cash from her insurance policy coming. No loss there. Might even still pay for a cheap funeral. Was there such a thing? No, that was Leena's money. Rich-dick Alex or her parents would pay the bill.

He'd know why she did it. He hadn't believed her—she was making the point. What did he expect? Her parents would be surprised though. They knew that she was a challenge, as they used to say, but probably wouldn't have guessed that she was on her last legs. Maybe she should tell them something first? No, that was dumb. They'd be as difficult as Alex, particularly her father. She didn't need another lecture. But maybe her mother deserved better. She had tried to just be there. Trula could just say thanks and goodbye. It was a thought for tomorrow.

Turned out she didn't need the herbal tea. She rolled over and faded out. Sleep was a good-enough escape for now.

### Chapter 22 – R.02 – It's Not a Secret

Trula thought that she would tell Alex about her winning ticket as soon as she burst through the front door. Maybe Leena would be standing there too. There would be the thrill of an orchestra launching into some kind of crescendo-laden background music. The blazingingly-bright day would backlight her entry, as she waved the ticket and needed three gasping tries to get out her: "I won..." declaration.

There would be laughing, there would be tears, there would be cheering. Who would be cheering wasn't clear in her head but certainly this feat deserved some spontaneous adulation. Having all of her problems solved by seven little numbers printed on a piece of paper merited at least an angelic choral ovation. The lottery corp commercials all seemed to include this stuff anyway.

It started to rain on the way home. The day was declining quickly into the typical half-fog, half-rain glooms this time of year so easily dealt out. Forget summer tans and near-naked frolicking, this was the shape of the dark, wet and cold near-future. Trula would have no problem getting from cab to door without being recognized—she'd need her hoodie up to avoid getting her head drenched. She declined the driver's offer, per Well's instruction, to assist her to the door.

She waved him off. "Nah, I'm fine. Mr. Heung overreacts a bit."

The driver did a lot of business in the area, so wanted to stay in everyone's good graces.

He offered again. "You sure, lady. No trouble—me help you. You havin baby or somethin? Know how that is—wife hardly walking before last one."

Trula laughed, "Baby? Shit no. Do I look like I'm having a baby? I turn sideways and just about disappear. Nah, just need to eat something. It's all good."

In spite of her assurances, the driver kept an eagle eye on her as she hustled up the sidewalk in the pouring rain. Just to prove her point she mounted the steps two at a time, then turned and bowed. Whether he was impressed or just relieved, he waved and finally drove off.

She should have kept going straight through the front door, but hesitated. Everything would change in a minute or two. She had to tell Alex. The whole fucking world knew—her lottery win wasn't anybody's secret anymore. Should she have just sat on the ticket for a while? She couldn't quite place the feeling of dread that had snuck up on her since leaving Well's. She imagined that the party was still underway at the Variety as Well would announce to every regular that one of them had hit the big one. Easy for him, he had nothing to lose. She felt like she had everything to lose.

Was "too much of a good thing" just a saying? She'd never felt that way about booze, drugs or sex. Maybe money was the exception that proved the rule? She wished that she could just extract a little bit of cash, solve her immediate problems and hide the rest, but this was an all-or-nothing pot and she was probably gonna have to be on TV to collect. She, hopefully they, would need to figure out a way through the noise and celebration that didn't kill the best relationship she ever had. If she was honest, it was a relationship built on her pitiful neediness, her tentative recovery and her ongoing scramble to survive. She was a weak damsel who needed Alex as her strong white knight. If that fantasy went away, would Alex disappear as well? What did he need?

She shrugged. Nothing to do but take her best shot. The other prospect she really dreaded was that everyone would be telling her what good luck she had, while she would know that luck had nothing to do with it. She cheated. That realization was slowly rising as the cause for a lot of her disquiet. Cheaters got caught. It was a fact of life. If not by some form of the law, then by some form of natural retribution. The fates would balance it all out somewhere down the road. Considering how incredibly big this cheated win was, she couldn't help but dread the currently unknown, but fairly certain crash and burn low in-waiting. Knowing a future shitstorm was likely, she'd still have to smile, nod and accept everyone's congratulations. As if a pile of money was a magic fix without consequences. Lots of millionaires died with a needle in their arm—piles of money clearly had a downside. If anyone could fuck it up, it was her.

There was no orchestra playing as she opened the front door. Neither Alex nor Leena was in the front room or kitchen. Her dripping re-entry to the house was unspectacular in its damp understatement. She crept in and stood in silence, trying desperately to see how this was going to go. Make a mistake now and she might never get it back.

Leena was nowhere in sight. But there was music playing somewhere. Happy chic music, that clearly wasn't for Alex's benefit. She was probably getting dressed in her room. Trula would bet on a late-morning brunch with Sam. That's what you did when you wanted to check whether the long night of loving actually happened and, more importantly, whether it meant something. If the guy, or girl in this case, preferred to leave the next step uncertain, as in "I'll call you...", then you could be pretty sure that the night was just recreation. The sooner that you put your feelings in that box too, the better off you'd be. One-sided infatuation was the first step down a Looney Tunes path to heartache. Better to write it off on the spot and move on. Chalk it up as meaningless fun.

If brunch was on, maybe Leena had found something, or someone, to be precise. That might really be the better good news story of the day. Too bad it was about to be steamrolled by her announcement. It wasn't fair. She decided to hold off saying anything until Leena was out of the house.

On cue, Leena burst into the front room, still hopping a last boot on. She might not have slept much, but she found some way to slap her skin back to rosy perfection. Her casual, yet classy gear said Sunday brunch at the Four Seasons among the minor celebs. Trula had to grin. Yeah, this was really good news.

Leena stopped dead and looked at her with sudden disappointment. The look startled Trula.

Leena finally said, "Shit, is it pouring rain? Jesus-Maria—last thing I need. I'll look as bad as you do by the other end. Er, no offense."

Trula grinned. "None taken. I could have used an umbrella for sure. You walking then?"

Leena shook her head. "No, getting picked up, but Sam and I were planning to walk uptown from her place."

"Take a big umbrella. I've got a monster you can have. My one memento from some company event prize table I can't remember. You can't go wrong snuggled together in the rain in the city. Think that they made a movie about something like that."

Leena wasn't sure. She was heading out on the first follow-up date in her life after a night in bed with someone. The prospect of clumping about under a four-foot wide umbrella didn't cut it.

Trula tried again. "Know what? Go umbrella-less and get soaked. Maybe you'll need to get out of your wet things together and forget all about eating? Would work for me."

Leena finally slowed down enough to get Trula's light ribbing. "Now that you put it that way, maybe this plan might work out. Except, I'm bloody hungry."

A horn out front said her driver was there. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door, with no umbrella.

Trula was still standing in front of the door, so she jumped aside.

As Leena passed, she asked, "Hey, is Alex back?"

Leena paused for only a second to refocus. "Don't think so. Didn't see him anyway, but I've been in my room. Maybe he snuck in?"

She was stopped just at arms length. She kept looking at Trula with a slightly tipped head.

She asked, "What's up?"

Trula blinked and sputtered, "Uh, nothing. Just hoping he was back is all."

"Don't mean with Alex—mean with you. You look like that black and white cartoon cat, what's his name, yeah, Sylvester; he has the canary in his mouth but is frantically denying the crime in spite of a leg and some yellow feathers sticking out."

Trula laughed. "No tweetie bird here, mam. No crimes at all. I'm just pretty juiced that you got laid and are now heading out for the door for a follow-up nooner. You got a tell-tale feather or two hangin out yourself."

Leena grinned and shook her head. "Geez, didn't know it was that obvious. But, yeah. Who woulda thunk?"

She was finally out the door. Trula slowly stripped off her soaked hoodie and kicked out of her runners. Time alone was OK, actually. She needed some space to think before all-hell broke loose. And it surely would, soon enough.

At the Variety, Woo-Jin was re-telling the big win story to each of his regulars as they came in. He acknowledged that Trula was always his favourite customer. Of course, he taught her how to play. Imagine, her first attempt was 1-2-3-4. So silly. It was very lucky that she came back and got his advice on how to pick her number. Winner first time she play for real. And it was good luck for Mrs. Heung and him too. Yes, they got a little reward for selling the ticket. Not much, but maybe a new car or something.

Some parts of his bragging recount might have pissed-off a few of his regulars who put a whack of money into lottery tickets every week and won nothing but a few bucks that they immediately put right back in, with a hopelessly-remote chance of ever winning anything big. But everyone listened. It was still fun to be close. It's what the lottery corp pounded out in ads every day. The fact that a big winner had come from this very place was still amazing. They shrugged and bought more tickets. No-one acknowledged the infinitesimally-low probability of a second big winner in a row coming from the same retailer.

About two hours after Trula left the store, an unusual-looking woman came in. She was overdressed for a Saturday, unless she was headed to a funeral. Clearly, she wasn't from the neighbourhood. She looked the place up and down, considered the entire store from back to front, then paid special attention to the Lotto7 promotional display and card holders.

The store was still busy so Woo-Jin couldn't keep his eye on her the entire time, but she wasn't shopping, wasn't playing lottery cards and wasn't asking for help. He knew how his customers behaved—her unusual behaviour put him on alert. He called back to Mrs. Heung. When she came out, he quietly told her in Korean that there was a peculiar person in the store and located her with a nod.

They both looked anywhere but straight at the woman, but she now occupied a good deal of their combined attention. Woo-Jin wondered if this was going to be a problem. Maybe weirdos or superstitious people would start showing up thinking that they good get some karma from the Variety that sold a winner. Might be OK if they bought tickets. Would be bad if they started stealing the fixtures.

Finally, when there was a break between customers, the woman focused on Woo-Jin and came over to the counter.

She asked, "Mr. Heung?"

He took a second before answering. Didn't seem any point in denying it.

"Yes. Who you?"

The woman had a slim leather portfolio with her. She opened it, withdrew a business card and handed it to him. The lottery corporation logo gave her away. Woo-Jin didn't pay any attention to her name and title. He just nodded and then gave Mrs. Heung the all-clear in Korean.

The woman waited patiently for his attention to return to her. "As my card says, I'm with the Integrity Department. We take over whenever there's been an apparent big winner."

Woo-Jin's English wasn't good enough to catch the subtle modifier.

She continued, "We complete the verification process."

She wasn't getting any visual confirmation of understanding back from him.

She added, "I'm here to complete some paperwork, so your winner," she checked her notes, "Uh Trula Bausch, can collect her money."

Woo-Jin finally got it. He nodded and smiled. He knew from his lottery retailer training course that big wins were subject to paperwork and declarations. After lottery ticket theft and fraud sent a family of convenience store owners to jail a couple years back, the rules on relationships and ticket handling got a lot tighter. He hadn't expected anyone so soon, but now that he understood, the visit wasn't a surprise.

She asked, "Can we sit somewhere?"

It was still pouring outside or a patio table might have worked. They would need to go to the office in back. Woo-Jin ordered Mrs. Heung behind the counter. She wouldn't be much on customer conversation, but she could handle the terminals and cash drawer as well as he could. He motioned for the woman to follow him.

The little office in the storeroom was crowded with open and closed product cases, paperwork and various in-process returns. A pass-through door led to the little kitchen, normally haunted by Mrs. Heung. There were two chairs that they could just barely squeeze into. Woo-Jin decided that he needed to be nice. Maybe this lady decided how big his bonus payment for selling the winning ticket would be.

He asked, "You want coffee or something to eat?" Getting it would involve displacing her from her chair to get out and back. He was relieved when she shook her head.

She had several forms out ready to be filled in.

She added a tight smile and showed them. "Hope that you remember these. One is the retailer declaration form for large prize ticket redemptions. The other is for the apparent winner to fill in. I'll be seeing her later on."

Woo-Jin nodded, although he had no recollection whatsoever. He never expected a big winner so why pay any attention to a form?

She continued, "Now I'll just get your details down, then you can verify them and sign the form."

He nodded. As she started asking questions, he realized that she hadn't said congratulations or showed any of the excitement of his customers. She was all business. He was suddenly afraid of her.

When they finished all of the name, address, business registration and other identification details, she began asking questions about the ticket holder.

"So, you personally sold the ticket to Ms Bausch?"

"Yes. Machine did, I guess."

"Of course, but you collected the money?"

He nodded.

"Is she a regular?"

Woo-Jin guessed that she was. "Sure, Ms Trula here all the time. Good friend."

"But not a relation of yours?"

"No—she's white girl. Canadian, guessin."

"But not married to a relative of yours or anything like that?"

Woo-Jin laughed. "Only relative in Canada is older brother. He got his own wife. Maybe he like this one better though, now she rich."

The woman barely blinked at his attempted joke. "So that's a no."

She continued, "She has never worked here or for you in any other job?"

This was easier. He shook his head and said, "No."

She seemed satisfied, but then consulted a printout in her portfolio.

"The winning ticket. Looks like she only played the one number sequence that she picked herself. This combination hasn't been played, even as a quick pick in many draws. Do you know if she played it before?"

Woo-Jin didn't get why this mattered, but wanted to stay helpful.

"No, not play it here, that I know, anyway. She actually play different number yesterday morning. Stupid though: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7. Told her it never win. But she play it anyway."

The woman stopped consulting her notes. She looked up.

"That is unusual. Did she say why she played that number sequence first?"

He shrugged, but then offered, "Practice, thinkin. She say that she never play before—needed to know how machine work." He paused, then added, "Pretty funny, eh? Never play and get lucky on only second choice. First choice, really. Stupid number don't really count."

She nodded, "Unusual, yes, in a number of ways. As she is your friend, did she say how she picked the winning number sequence?"

Woo-Jin nodded. He had been telling a fib all morning about Trula using birthdays, when he actually knew the truth. He didn't want to lie to this official. He might lose his new car if found out."

He whispered, "She say that she knows winning number before draw."

He laughed. "That's even dumber that 1-2-3-4, eh? Who can know number ahead of time? Maybe she dream it or maybe have wee gee board thing? Don't know, but that what she said."

The woman nodded without smiling at the suggestions, while writing the notes on her page.

Woo-Jin wanted to stay helpful. "Actually, she probably didn't dream. Said she having trouble sleeping. Sometimes she pretty fuzzy you know. Hope not drugs, but it's big problem round here. So maybe. Gave her some Angelica to help fix problems. She actually look much better today."

The woman hadn't been writing all of his observations down, but was paying close attention.

She asked, "It is pretty dumb, as you say, thinking that you can predict the number, but it seems to have worked for her. You say that she's unusual. Is she some kind of computer nerd or anything like that?"

Woo-Jin was stumped by the question. He offered, "No. Not that I know. Only know that she a little out of it sometimes."

The woman nodded. The questions were over.

She put the completed multi-part form with his retailer details in front of Woo-Jin for his signature. Once he signed and dated it, she extracted a yellow copy for him to keep and started to pack up her portfolio.

Woo-Jin had to ask. "So how much we get for our bonus for selling big ticket?"

She smiled, but didn't answer or stop putting her materials together.

Finally, she said, "You'll need to consult your retailer reference binder for that information. Or call downtown during the week. With a prize of this size there is a little more work to do. You understand—needs lots of checks and confirmations. If this prize goes through, your channel representative will certainly be in touch with your award."

She turned and began to walk out, but added, "Thank-you for your time. You've been most helpful."

Then she was gone. Woo-Jin was a little irritated that he would have to wait until Monday to find out how much he was getting. He replayed her comments, right down to the last sentences. What did she mean, "if?"

At the house, Trula had the time she needed to figure out how to tell Alex the news. She rehearsed the announcement. No music; no bright lights; no cheering throng; she had her phone out sitting on top of the ticket on the kitchen table. It was already displaying the lottery corp website page that showed the winning number sequence. She planned to just point and let him take it from there.

Alex came back mid-afternoon. Trula had tried napping with no success—she was working on reserves, considering the late night and this morning's excitement. Around noon she had a moment of panic as she realized that her name and picture might be starting to trend on Twitter or one of the other apps. Alex might stumble on to it if he was browsing on his phone. Or others might and start calling him. Should she have just called him? The cat might well be far out of the bag already.

She was actually kind of glad that no one had her new number except Alex, Bob and Leena. And the crew, she guessed as she had texted some of them. She could only imagine what might happen to a big winner whose number got out there. Every nutjob and desperate loser in town would be calling for a handout. But her stolen number wasn't available to anybody. They sure couldn't Google it.

Her next moment of panic was realizing the possibility of somebody finding her address. She wasn't listed on the house phone and never gave out her address to anyone. She learned nasty things about bill collectors a long time ago. Not that she could buy anything on credit anymore, but she guessed it was only good luck that she hadn't dumped out her address to Amazon or some other online service. As far as she knew, there was no way for anyone to find her, unless they recognized her on the street and followed her home. That was a real possibility. Crooks on TV would go to great lengths for a few thousand dollars. Certainly, some real bad guys could make an attempt at blackmail or try to collect a ransom. She needed a big new hat and some celebrity sunglasses. Her hoodie, once thoroughly dry, would become her favourite piece of clothing.

Alex came in the door, completely dry, with a smile. It still appeared to be pissing rain outside, but she wasn't going to ask how he did that. She was waiting for some kind of explosion, indicating that he had been blindsided by somebody with news of her win. He was just happy to be home. She breathed out. He obviously hadn't heard.

He leaned in for a hug. "Hey, sorry to be so long. Been stocking shelves all day. The boys are back at the old shop—all good now. They even scored some kind of legit license. Think that an actual pharmacist is buying in and putting his name on the door, but not actually planning to be there. Like all things with them—it's complicated."

He realized that she was sitting dead still with an expression that said "flight or fight" all over it. She seemed to be hanging on to the table so she wouldn't fly away.

He asked, "You OK? You look like you're waiting for the roof to fall-in or maybe for the floor to rise-up. What's going on?"

Trula had rehearsed this part a half-dozen times. She planned to say absolutely nothing. All communication would come from Alex. His reaction would be her guide to what came next. Was there any way that he would be anything except delighted? She could think of a few responses, including outrage, that his carefully managed life was about to go completely out of control.

She pointed at the two things on the table. His eyes followed her hand. She picked up the lottery ticket, which was starting to show the signs of being handled way too much. She handed it to him.

He was confused, but studied it. "A lottery ticket? Hey, you won something? Super—dinner is on you!"

She shook her head and held up one finger indicating, just a minute. She picked up her phone and refreshed the screen. It was still on the lottery draw page with the winning number sequence showing. She handed it to him.

He grinned. "What's this? Still a pantomime then? I'm supposed to look at this?"

She nodded. He did.

It took him a few seconds to get that he was supposed to compare the numbers. Then he started sputtering. "It's a match. To all the fucking numbers? What the hell? How much is that worth?"

She made a motion with her finger indication he should scroll down. When he did, he saw the banner that said one winner would collect $22,287,010. He slowly looked up and now pointed at her.

"Holy shit! You won, what's that: twenty-two million?"

He stood open-mouthed, blinking at her in disbelief.

Finally, she spoke. "Didn't know how to tell you. I've been sitting here in a panic all day. I don't know what to do. Is it OK?"

Alex was laughing. "OK? Goddamn! You're a fucking millionaire, twenty-two times over. It's fantastic!"

He grabbed her and dragged her to her feet for a big hug.

He said, "Think we're supposed to jump up and down now."

They did, laughing and hooting all around the room. Trula knew she was going to collapse back into the chair when they were done. She had never felt so relieved.

When she finally had her breath back, she told him about going to the Variety in the morning.

"Old Well just about blew out his gaskets. The whole store was in an uproar. Before I knew what was happening, the lottery corp guy was on the phone confirming the win. I was probably really stupid, but about twenty people took pictures of me with the ticket. I'm sure that it's all over the Web by now. I was terrified that you'd get blindsided by somebody who knows us."

Alex was still processing the news. He kept shaking his head in disbelief.

"Twenty-two million? It's so much that it's hard to visualize. That's like twenty-two mansions or maybe four hundred BMW's or something. What the hell do you do with that much money? Better, what do you do first?"

He was still jumping around, but she was quiet. A tear had slipped out—it was taking all of her willpower and what remaining strength she had to keep from bawling.

Finally, it burst out. "I...I...don't know. I'm so fucking afraid."

Then she was bawling. He came over and scooped her up. They stood hugging with him saying softly, "It'll be alright, we'll figure it out," over and over.

Finally, she started to calm down.

She got out, "Oh, I need a pill. Waited too long—crying and laughing both hurt like hell."

Alex sat her down and went for her prescription pack.

On the way back, he laughed. "How much money have you got in your pocket right now?"

Trula knew that he meant in her backpack.

She sniffed, "I dunno, maybe twenty bucks."

He laughed again. "Can you think of anyone who deserves this more than you?"

She tried a small smile. "No, guess not. But I do have lots of people to pay back for keeping me afloat. They're all getting it back with a few zeros added. I'm definitely gonna spread this around."

Alex nodded. "Sure, you are. If you put it in the bank and just spread the interest around, you'll be covering everything you owe by about a hundred times. It's a stake. You can do great things with it, if you want to. Nothing sad at all here."

She hadn't thought about it that way since way back when she first had the idea of cheating to win. Yeah, there were lots of places where a million-dollar donation would change the life of hundreds of people. That's what she would do. Get rid of most of it right away. Keep just a little and pay back all her debts. Get a house of her own. Maybe start a little business. Yeah, it might all work out after all. And Alex, as brilliant as he is, could be right there with her.

Alex could see that she was lost in thought. She was now smiling so he waited her out. Finally, she came back to him.

She said, "Yeah, it's a stake. That's gonna be my response line when asked. "It's a stake that's gonna do a lot of good for a lot of people."

Alex nodded and grinned. "That's the idea."

After a moment, he asked, "When do you collect?"

She shrugged. "Don't know. The lottery guy on the phone at the Variety said that there's some forms to fill or something, but they would be in touch. Guess that will be Monday. Think that I have to go over one day to stand there with a big cheque for pictures. You can stand there too if you want. It could be both of ours."

She realized too late that she made a very definite statement about their relationship. If they both held the cheque, they'd be telling the world that they were a lot more than just recent friends who like screwing and hanging out together. Had it come out wrong?

Alex grinned. "I'd love to do that, except there are about a hundred reasons why I don't want my picture on the front page of the newspaper. The burden of the cheque will be all yours, I'm afraid. But I'll be just off-stage."

She smiled. He had rolled with her assumption and neatly left her with a big yes, but a little no, at the same time. Off-stage was good enough. They needed nothing but time now to figure it all out.

### Chapter 23 – R.01 – Hope Less

Trula struggled out of bed Sunday morning to an empty flat. Leena may or may not have been in and gone out again. She didn't know. It was late by Leena's standards—early by Trula's. The place was cleaned-up; the leftover take-out food was stashed in the fridge; the table was cleared, with glasses and plates in the sink. Not that it mattered, but she hoped that Alex had done that before leaving. If he didn't, Leena would have been compelled to get to it, probably muttering under her breath the entire time.

An instant coffee and a cold spring roll served for breakfast. There was more food around since Alex started stocking the cupboard a bit, although beyond frying a steak, he hadn't cooked any of it. Most of their shared food came in the front door ready-to-consume, from one service or another.

Didn't matter what was available, she had no energy to make anything, even as simple as cereal. It was dull outside, but better than yesterday's rain-out. She briefly wondered what kind of work Bob and the crew were doing. Maybe they were restoring last week's displaced file cabinets. If so, they would appreciate her transfer system, if anyone remembered it. Certainly, they would have been off to work early—way before she was conscious. She had some OK memories there. They were good guys. If she was still feeling a lot, she'd feel bad for them for what she was going to do.

She thought about her family a couple more times when awake in the night. She had some good memories there too. They were mostly long ago, but some still stuck in her head. She followed her older brother around and got into lots of kid jams, usually due to his idiot suggestions. On occasion, they pissed themselves laughing. He really needed a younger brother to boss around and to pick on, but he didn't get one. She had to stand-in, even though rough-housing was never allowed. He risked a beating if their father caught them in the middle of rules-breaking. He usually deserved it. She never got so much as a spanking. When she got older, she learned how to play innocent and let him take the fall, even when the discovered misdemeanor was her doing. Too big for beatings, he spent hours exiled to his room. He repaid her much later by sabotaging her early relationships, by spreading false rumours about her and by stepping in front of her whenever he could block her way in the world. By their mid-teens, they hated each other.

She realized that she had drifted-off replaying past grievances in her head, with the temptation to add 'coulda or woulda' revisions, even though the events were far in the past. Now 'grown-up', she really should have forgotten the stupidity of her younger years long ago. She should certainly have forgiven her brother, who was really just an unloved, frustrated kid. He finally matured out of his defensive egotism and insecurity, mostly. He actually might have tried to make up once. It had been hard to tell. There was no apology for past wrongs, only a suggestion at one stiff Christmas dinner that maybe she'd like to visit him and his stuck-up wife sometime. Now there was a kid. She guessed that they would put on a family show if Aunt Trula came over. She had no intention of going anywhere near him.

Her phone was so new that she hadn't put more than a couple numbers in the contact list. Her parents' phone number wasn't one of the entries. She corrected herself; since they'd graduated to cellphones, they now had a total of four numbers to try. None of them was the house phone number she grew up with. Her mother and father each had their own business. She had scribbled notes about both their cellphones and their business lines in her ragged little address book. It was laying open on the table beside her phone.

She told herself that her mother deserved at least a good-bye phone call. It was all she had to do. Call and be pleasant enough. Say something like, thanks for everything you've done for me. Don't let on that it's the last time they'll talk. Just impart awareness that her daughter wishes things were different.

Her father didn't deserve the same consideration. Her mother could pass on, "She says hi." He'd grunt in reply if he was even around.

She stared at the phone all through the cup of coffee. She recalled thinking about calling her mother a couple days ago to tell her that she was doing OK; that she had her addiction under control; that she had started a better job, which she enjoyed, and that she had a man in her life for the first time in a year. It might have been a nice phone call, if things were different, assuming her mother would stop what she was doing to pay attention. Most of those things were gone now. She was ahead of schedule burning up her meds, which would be a problem if she got as far as reporting back to Doc Lana. As a result, she was more stoned than she should be. Her job was gone, having lasted a grand total of three days. Her man was out the door—she'd chased him away.

The whole idea of a good news phone call had been premature. As had happened so many times before, the good news items dissolved away one after the other. Her call now would have to be neutral, non-specific and uncomplicated. She felt that she couldn't handle any more than that.

She finally muttered, "fuck-it," and keyed in her mother's personal cellphone number.

The screen display offered a short-cut. She shook her head. "No, stupid phone, I don't want to create a new contact. What for?"

She just punched the dial icon.

Maybe it was because it was Sunday morning; this wasn't an active business time. Maybe it was the unknown number display; she could be a customer. Maybe it was just the novelty of her phone ringing beside her while she finished her third coffee. For whatever reason, her mother answered.

Trula had been winding herself up to leave a call-me message that didn't sound like she was on the bad end of a multi-day drug binge. It didn't matter now, the voice on the other end was live. Trula had to rethink her plan in real time. There was no hope for it, she could only be herself.

She heard, "Hello?"

What else could she do? She said, "Mom, it's Trula." (try not to sound like a zombie)

"Oh, dear, is there trouble?" (leave it to Mom to assume the worst, but then some prior calls had been about serious trouble)

"No, no problem. Just calling to say hi. Haven't talked in a while." (and I'm not dead yet)

"Oh, OK. Well it's nice that you called. I'm just finishing breakfast. You're not interrupting anything." (because all other things are more important to Mrs. All-business.)

"Just wondering how you are? How's dad?" (really don't give a shit, but have to ask)

"Oh, we're fine. Your father isn't working as much, but he's golfing more, so not around any more than he ever was. My business is good. Can't complain. Well, I can complain; the Internet travel companies are killing individual trip bookings, but I'm adding some business customers." (bloody travel agency is her only interest, including her husband and children.)

"I was more interested in how you are. Are you feeling good?" (for now)

"Oh, well, I'm fine too then, dear." (as if she'd ever admit a fault)

Trula was waiting for any form of inquiry back. She wondered how many other mothers could talk to their child for ten minutes after not talking for three months and not at least ask how they are doing, without assuming it's lousy. She let the silence hang there. It finally came.

"Well then Trula, how are you doing?" (there it was—that's all I'm getting)

"I've been better, but I'm carrying on, you know, making the best of the situation."

"Oh, are you having some problems? Do you need some money?" (giving money is easier that giving compassion or love)

Trula laughed. "I always need money, living downtown, but no, I'm OK. I'm working" (lying is easier for me)

"Oh, that's good. Well, you should come over. Never get your father on the phone, but I know that he'd like to see you too." (would he or are you just being polite?)

"Well, I might do that. Sometime soon." (not in my current plans)

"Oh, how about today? We're having an early supper, between football games, you know. With just the two of us there's always too much food. Can you come for three or so?" (what? no way)

"It's not a really good day, mom."

"But, you're not busy, are you? Some good home cooking will put some meat on your bones. I bet you're still much too thin. I'm ordering the ribs in, but I'll be making one of those casseroles you love. Just drop in, around three, for dinner. No need to hang around." (this conversation isn't going anywhere, maybe face-to-face is better)

"Ah, mom, wasn't planning on going out today. I'm, ah, a little hungover."

"Oh, well, nothing like fresh air to fix that." (air doesn't fix stoned)

"Uh, OK, guess so." (gonna regret this)

"I'll tell your father you're coming. See you at three, then." (augh!)

Click.

She sat there staring at the phone. In the old days, dial tone would have told her to hang up. Now the screen just went blank. What the hell had she just agreed to?

Alex had tried to call once while she was still sleeping. She'd left her phone in the kitchen and didn't hear the alert. She had a missed call and message indicator showing on her phone. When she refreshed the screen, she saw another message waiting indicator; he had tried her while she was talking to her mother. He wanted to talk to her.

Now she faced a dilemma. She might tolerate an attempted apology and sincere promise to do better. If she let him come over, they might even find some way to physically make-up. But she was headed to the most stressful place in her world at her parent's house in just a few hours. She had to straighten out a bit; meaning no more pills. Whatever she did with Alex, she knew the overhang of her committed visit would interfere with her ability to hear his appeal. She couldn't handle both—he'd have to wait.

She knew that he didn't answer his calls directly. She could leave a message telling him a lot or a little. Somewhere in her head there was a voice telling her to just keep it simple. She had driven him off for his own good. Why let him back in, just to break his heart later? He'd never fully understand her—she was just too weird for him. There might be a temporary rapprochement, but it wouldn't do her any good and would just hurt him more. No, he's better off moving on right now. She decided not to call him back.

Her parent's house was a short walk, a subway ride and a bus ride away. The walk and the subway segments were pretty much under her control. The bus was a random variable. She recalled, when she still lived at home, that the bus platform game involved running up the Runnymede station stairs counting on the slim possibility of a Scarlett Road bus idling there, but facing the higher probability of an empty platform and acknowledging the apparently highest probability of seeing the bus just pulling out. Watching its tail end disappear during off-peak times could mean a half-hour wait for the next one. Returning from various teenage jobs with off-hours shifts all over the city, she seemed to recall spending more time swearing and waiting than actually riding the quick route over to Edenbridge Road where her house was.

Today, she didn't care. Do prisoners shuffling towards the gallows mind if there's a slight delay?

"Not at all captain, take all the time you need."

She felt the same way heading home. Of course, today there was a warm bus waiting only for her, apparently, as she emerged. As soon as she was on, it headed out. Kiss my bus ass-end everybody else!

The two-storey house where she grew up was still in more or less the same place as always. God knew what these places were worth now. Lots of the originals had already disappeared to accommodate lot-line to lot-line monster rebuilds. Too bad she'd never inherit a cent of its worth when they finally did sell out.

Her childhood house wasn't really her house anymore as the first floor had been remodelled into her mother's travel agency with her father's accounting office tucked in just behind. Lovely front gardens had been torn up to provide a couple street-access parking spots. The back yard disappeared under more parking and a rear addition, which now held the kitchen and family room. The second floor was structurally the same, but her room and her brother's room had long ago disappeared to yet one more office and a storage room.

She trudged up the slight hill of her street, delaying the revelation of her home gone commercial until the last possible moment. Eventually, she was standing out front. Big signs weren't allowed in the neighbourhood, but her mother had used every inch of available window space to plaster up posters for exotic destinations. Two neon-lit window signs advertised if she was open, not currently, and boasted her the franchise affiliation. Her father's CPA business merited only a small nameplate beside the door.

Trula knew better than to go in the front door. A rear door was secured with a combination entry pad, whose number never changed. The irony of this one constancy wasn't lost on her. Change every other aspect of the place but leave in effect the same entry code that she and a couple dozen of her neighbourhood friends learned when she was twelve-years old. Standing on the back porch, she punched it in one last time. Of-course the green light indicated that she could just go ahead and turn the handle to enter.

As sliced-up as it was, the house was still her first home. Constants, including the old coats that apparently never moved off hook, the mismatched and faded boot trays bearing the same ratty yard shoes, the unmoving souvenir plaques from her parents' long-ago continental travels by station wagon and the well-used and steadfastly-smelly cat litter box, all welcomed her back to the alcove entryway. She hung her outer coat on her hook and kicked off her runners. The back of the house was always comfortably ignored, both in cleaning and decluttering, so was familiar to her eyes. She might be coming in from a high school day; nothing in her immediate field of view corrected the possibility. Ten years on, the old place still knew her and, maybe, was still welcoming her.

She once would have yelled "I'm home," on entering, more to check who else was there than to provide any assurance of her safe return from the hostile city. Her follow-up behaviour would be determined by which combination of grumpy father, intrusive mother or irritating brother she had to deal with. Silence back then was the best outcome, although her brother felt no need to respond, preferring instead to ambush her when she thought she was alone.

For her final visit, she felt no need to announce herself. She knew who was there. The sound of TV sports in the family room said her father was in the house, probably a couple beers into maybe the second of his four Sunday, bet-upon, American football games. The absence of her mother from the lights-on kitchen said she was up-front in her office, possibly to put the greatest distance between her and her husband, but most likely because of her obsessive attention to the functioning of her little travel agency. She rarely acknowledged that her part-time staff person did just fine without her when they headed south in winter or when she grabbed some destination junket discounted to near-nothing for market influencers.

Since mother had discovered an automated emailing program, she deluged her little database of clients and potential clients with almost daily price updates, new offers and destination pitches. Trula had to claim technical problems when asked about missing alerts after she designated her own mother as a spammer. She guessed her mother was out front right now pounding out yet another obscure broadcast.

So, father first then. He wouldn't want to be disturbed. Were she in better shape and not in her final days, she might have pop a beer and go in to join him. Watching football was OK. The stop-start nature of the game tended to keep conversation short. With her father, conversation windows would be limited to the forty seconds of countdown clock between plays, less any meaningful in-break commentary, most of which irritated him, but which sometimes noted the status of an injured player or other outcome-affecting situation. During commercials, he might pay attention if he wasn't clicking between channels.

Today, she just stepped into the room, with no intention of sitting down. Dinner conversation was going to be hard enough. Right now, she just needed acknowledgement.

She waited for a break in the action, then said, "Hi dad. Mom tell you she dragged me over?"

He looked over at her tentatively, indicating that the on-field activity might still be more important.

After confirming that he could shift his attention without risk, he replied, "Hello, Trula. Yes, she said you were coming 'round. Is there a problem?"

She expected the question. She did cause them lots of problems, once. Lately, she kept her problems to herself. Bringing problems here meant being agreeable to onerous terms for their assistance with solutions. She could already list them: get straight, hold a job, finish school, live under their roof, avoid her bad-influence friends, and so on.

There were always other probes: the questions of insight that she just didn't have. Why didn't she "dress for success". Why did she need drugs anyway, when long walks were just as good? Why didn't she still hang out with so and so, now that she has her nice home and baby from her lawyer husband? Her standard answer was, "How the fuck should I know?" which sufficed to end the immediate questioning, but raised the temperature for the inevitable next round of veiled digs.

At one time, she'd put up with the intrusion in her life to get the few hundred dollars she needed to get a bill collector out of her face. She even tried passing through the house as a temporary resident a couple times. The few weeks proved intolerable. Now she just didn't leave herself open to needing their help.

That she'd be on the street in a couple weeks, if she kept on her current path, meant that they would eventually be coming after her with their demand list and their stupid questions. Word would get back to them and they'd show up with the car door open. They could afford to rescue her. They just made the rehabilitation so frustrating and painful, that this time, she planned not to go for it.

She was good at finding openings in the football broadcast. As the next commercial came on and he wasn't switching channels, she knew that she had a one-minute or so window.

"No problems—all good. Just called and mom offered to feed me. Couldn't say no, even though I'm hungover."

Being hungover is OK with him. Booze is his crutch too.

"Hmm, too bad. You working?"

"Yeah, nice little company. Does specialized office moves and stuff. Weird off-hours schedules, but needs some brainpower on site, so they like me."

The commercial break was down to twenty seconds.

"That's good. Work your way up. Logistics is a growing field."

She lied about her real prospects with Bob's company, but the truth wouldn't fit into his schedule and she had no intention of leaving any openings for the questions to start. She hesitated in responding. The play-by-play came back on. She slipped out of the room as his full attention went back to the half-wall of 4K TV in front of his recliner.

There was a countdown timer active on the stove. These she could understand. She was early, thanks to her own private bus, so she saw more than thirty little minutes of casserole cooking time left to pass by. That probably meant that her mother planned to get twenty-five minutes of work in. She wouldn't disturb her, mostly to avoid that time turning into conversation time. Plus, a thirty minutes or so sounded like a perfect nap window. She grabbed a glass of water from the ancient cooler, still in place, and headed upstairs.

The only bedroom not occupied by her parents, who each had their own, was a new "guest" bedroom in the back that she occasionally slept in on holiday stay-overs. The little suite would be right at home in any low-end B and B. It was sterile, devoid of any niceties, thereby encouraging the guest to get the hell out without wrinkling the bedspread or cluttering the closet. The adjacent bathroom didn't have soap or towels unless these items were specifically turned-out for a visitor. Trula suspected that there were several sets of bathroom towels. One set for royalty who might somehow visit, one set for respected relatives who rarely visited and one set for her, taken from under the sink, which always smelled and felt like they were supplied by the nearby old-age home's laundry service. She just planned to wrinkle the perfectly smooth bedspread this visit.

Her mother was gently shaking her. For a moment, she wondered if she had jumped to some really strange alternate reality where she was twelve again and, as always, was having trouble with morning. The fuzz cleared as she rolled up to sitting; her achy body and throbbing head confirmed that she was no pollutant-free pre-teen.

Her mother apologized, "I'm sorry to wake you dear, but dinner's just about ready and your father wants to eat before the West Coast game starts. You know how he is about football."

Trula nodded, as she attempted to bring her focus up and out of the ache that was rapidly returning to her whole body.

She nodded, adding, "Just give me a sec in the bathroom, I'll be right down."

Her mother smiled and turned towards the door. Trula waited for expected instructions to please make the bed, but they never came. She would fix it anyway. The possibility of an unmade bed up there would sit in the back of her mother's head all through her visit until she could get back up herself to check it. Regardless of how well Trula smoothed it, mother would reset the pillows and comforter just so. Trula had long ago accepted her neurotic fixation on beds. Could be worse things to be hung up on.

When she came down, her father was already at the table and serving himself. The delivery service ribs had been turned out into a ceramic serving dish. Her mother's noodle casserole was mid-table and a simple salad, already dressed, completed the line-up. She sat in her spot, across from her mother. There was already a glass of milk poured for twelve-year old her. Father sat in the captain's chair at the end. He brought along his current bottle of beer.

Her mother waved her hands and said, "Go ahead and serve yourself dear. Don't want the food to go cold. I just love these ribs from the grill over on Renforth. Who knew that you could just call for delivery? Why make a mess, eh? I hope that the casserole isn't too dry. The recipe only calls for one cup of milk and a can of soup. I always put in two cups, but the sauce still seems to disappear."

Pause for breath. "Are you eating well? Go ahead and take a whole rack there. I put out the steak knives to separate them. Didn't expect to work today, but Air Canada cancelled another set of flights due to that plane problem. I had to check all my client bookings. Good thing, none were affected. It's not like we can't rebook flights, but they get so fussy for economy seats. If you don't move quickly, the alternate planes fill up. How is your roommate doing, Louise or Leena is it?

Trula figured that she needed another breath. "It's Leena. She's fine. Apparently, she's a lesbian. I never knew."

Her mother was about to start up again, but stopped with her mouth open. The airspace gave her father a chance to stick in a comment edgewise.

"You can usually tell. It's the haircut. Does she get her hair cut real short?"

Her mother didn't see any way into the discussion, so finally closed her mouth around a forkful of food.

Trula nodded to her father. "Think that's just the butch ones. They need both types to make a couple, I think. Makes you wonder if the cute ones are really gay or just disgusted by actual men?"

Her father was an old pike who had seen every type of lure dragged past his nose. He knew when not to bite. Her mother wasn't as astute.

"Well, I hope that you're still looking for a nice young man. Wouldn't want you to turn gay just because Louise tries it."

Trula resisted shaking her head. "It's Leena."

They would see Leena at the funeral. Simple manners said that they should remember the name of her daughter's roommate of two years.

"As in Horne. But with two e's. Think Stormy Weather."

She now hated that she had started this, just to get a rise out of them. "Her gayness is really none of our business. Sorry I brought it up."

She met her father's eyes and got a silent, "WTF!", or his old man equivalent anyway. He'd be hearing mother's theories on her daughter's possible gay contamination for the next week. She gave him her silent pledge to change the channel on that right away. Yeah, they'd have other stuff to worry about soon enough.

The meal finished with no other issues of any consequence coming up. She got a full report on how well her brother was doing. Maybe they should all go on a family trip somewhere? Might as well fly as she can get really good prices. Did she want to take some food home? She'd pack her up some. Christmas was only two months away now and on a Tuesday this year. She and father were volunteering somewhere that he would decide on Christmas day. What was her new phone number? She'd let Trula know, if she wanted to join them. They were heading to Marco Island again for January and maybe February. The hung out with the same couples down there each year. Did she mention one was a retired cow veterinarian? What stories he had to tell. One time... The narrative went on.

Trula waited for her father's cue. He just got up and left the table, before interrupting her mother.

"You still smoking mom?"

She wouldn't have admitted it openly in front of her husband, but could now whisper back. "Yes, but just a couple a day. You know how your father is. Are you smoking?"

She grinned. "Just yours. Think I'm pretty safe. Wanna go out for one?"

The back porch still had a couple chairs out. They sat around the rusting metal side table that had always just been there. As always, her mother slid the saucer out from under the gnarly midget hibiscus that owned the table until real frost was likely. Ashes could mix with the dirt—the butts would be carefully carried to the garbage inside.

The late afternoon was actually pleasant enough that just sitting out was OK. Later the needle would try for zero in the lengthening overnight. Smoking seemed to shut her mother up. Trula guessed that she loved the nicotine hit enough to not want to breathe it all out by talking.

She figured this was the time. "Mom, just wanted to say that I appreciate all that you do. I know that I'm a tough row to hoe sometimes, but I've appreciated it all. Ups and downs. Troubles and good times, you've been there for me. Just wanted to say thanks."

Her mother considered her for a few moments, then very uncharacteristically said something revealing, "I know about the pain, you know. Maybe, that's why I keep trying."

Trula wrinkled her brow. "You're in pain? Thought that you said you were fine."

Her mother smiled and shook her head. "No, I'm OK now. I learned how to manage it. I wish that you could too. You can't give in to it."

Trula was confused. Had she said more than she intended?

"Give in to it?"

"It gets to you. When you're young, you can just slip in and out without ripping any edges. Later though, it bites. It's not just a saying, you know."

"What isn't"

"Reality bites. You fuck with reality and it bites you. Each time through you strip the skin off another bunch of nerve ends."

Trula had never heard her mother speak of the things that she thought were only in her head. She was dumbstruck that the woman she long considered to be self-centred and remote might actually know her better than any other person on earth.

"You know about that? Have you always known?"

Her mother smiled and now leaned over to rest her hand on Trula's arm.

"Yes. I know. I could step through once too. Maybe I still can. But now I won't tempt it. Guess if I was in a burning building or on a sinking ship, I might have to, but otherwise, it's not worth the pain. I've got what I want. There's nothing through a door that I need."

"You've used it? You stepped out? Why didn't you ever say anything? Fuck, for that matter, why didn't we ever have a mother-daughter talk about it? Kind of more important than tampons and condoms, don't you think?"

Her mother dropped her head. She was strangely silent.

Finally, she said, "I'm so sorry. I hoped that you might be spared, like your brother. I didn't know. You seemed to be OK. Once or twice, I felt the fabric shift and knew that it must be you. I should have stepped in then, but other than forbidding it, I didn't know what else to say. I outgrew the need. I hoped that you would too. By the time I realized that you hadn't, it was too late."

Trula now sat in silence. She had planned to just eat the required meal and say a light and pleasant thanks before heading out. She hadn't imagined this conversation ever taking place. Her experience taught her never to mention her problem to anyone she really cared about. The first of those people was her mother. But now the lens was reversed. She was seeing deep into another weirdo. She was hearing her own words spoken back to her.

She could admit her problem to someone without niceties, finally. It took her a minute to figure out what to say.

Finally, she said, "I probably did figure the pain part out too, a while ago. I swore off stepping through then. Unfortunately, my edges stayed raw and left me with a physical need that I still can't meet. Trying, but failing, to tell the truth."

Her mother stood and pulled her up for a hug. Then she held Trula at arm's length.

"But you didn't stop, did you? I felt the fabric shifting again these last two weeks. Don't know what you're doing, but it's not good. You're too old now. It will put you through the ringer one too many times. You won't survive."

Trula could feel tears coming. "I had to try to change things, one last time."

Her mother held her gaze steady. "That's it then—tell yourself it's over. You have to find a way through the lasting pain. Come home. Let me help you through it. We'll tell dad it's something simple, like cancer or schizophrenia. He'll believe anything. Together we can do what you need to do to beat it."

Trula asked, "Does dad know then?"

Her mother laughed. "No, not exactly. I started to tell him once, a long time ago, but he clearly couldn't understand. I saw the disbelief on his face and heard his first words suggesting that my "lady" problems must be affecting my head. I cut off my disclosure just in time and agreed with him.

"So, he didn't accept you as you are?"

She laughed again. "Sure, he did. I'm me. I didn't change. He just referred to my delusions as my crazy time for a couple years, then forgot about it entirely. I self-medicated for a while but got over it. Opioids weren't available then. Alcohol had to do. Some nice non-judgemental people helped me kick that. I still go to AA meetings now and then. Helps me to keep looking forward."

Trula was downcast. Finally, she said, "I have a wonderful man. Had maybe, now. I had a fit yesterday and told him everything. When he refused to believe, I threw him out. He was the best thing in my life."

Mother smiled, "Now I understand the cloud you're dragging around."

She let out a deep breath, then continued. "Go get him back. Let him look after you, if he will. What does it matter if he gets it or not? Not might actually be better. He'll forget about it too, soon enough. Our pain isn't that much different from others. Find an addiction support group. Pretend. Get through it. Keep living."

Her mother's last words struck her. Was she being obvious? Trula wasn't at all sure that she wanted to go back to the struggle. But she now owed her mother something that wasn't there a few hours earlier. An effort? Maybe things were different—maybe they weren't? She couldn't imagine living a lie for the rest of her life. She'd turn into her mother—comfortably numb and keeping herself busy. But she could give Alex one more chance to understand her. If he could give her even the smallest hint of acceptance, maybe they could survive. She might keep living.

Her father dropped her at the subway station, so there was no bus drama this time around. He actually said that she should stay in touch. It was as close to, "I love you," as he would ever get. The walk from subway to home was her first chance to try Alex with some possibility for a private conversation. Of course, he didn't answer. The call went directly to his voicemail.

"Hi, it's me. Sorry I didn't call back earlier. Wasn't together enough this morning, then I went over to my parents. I hear your: "whaattt??" all the way over here. I know that I've said nasty things about them. But I needed an answer, which I sort of got. Not the one I thought, but maybe OK. I don't know yet. If you still want to talk to me, I'm walking home. Be there in twenty. Sorry again. I'm better now." She realized that she was rambling.

She hung up. She desperately needed a pill, but had intentionally left them at home so that she couldn't take one at her parents. The walk stretched out as her aching muscles rebelled against any sort of aggressive pace. Eventually, two steps per sidewalk block was all she had left. She crept up to the house with her head down.

"Was it that bad?"

Alex's voice cut through her fog. He was sitting on the front steps with his phone in his hand. She was surprised and should have smiled. It just didn't come.

He said, "Got your message."

She finally found a small grin. "How long have you been sitting there?"

He laughed. "Not long. I was inside gabbing with Leena, but thought that this was more movie-like. You know, we could run into each other's arms in slow motion."

She shook her head. "I've got the slow-motion part down."

He got up and came down the walk to help her.

She groaned, "I need a pill. All day off meds just to be a little straight at my mom's. No sinister motive this time. Just tried to dry out for dinner. It was working until my mother dropped her lifelong secret on me. I think anyway. Halfway home I began to wonder if I'd actually heard her or just imagined it—me being pretty good at hallucinations. Ha-ha."

Alex put his arm around her. "Come on. Don't know what I can do about unpleasant truths, hers or ours, but I can sure get you a glass of water and a big soft chair."

### Chapter 24 – R.02 – Not Alone

Alex helped to make announcement calls. Social media got ahead of them and some people knew already. They decided to hedge on questions of both how much she had actually won and when there would be a big celebration party with a small slice of her winnings. Alex had to repeat the information three times before Bob would accept that they weren't shitting him. He then guessed, correctly, that she wasn't coming along to the job site on Sunday.

The call to her parents involved a lot less profanity, but resulted in similar expressions of incredulity. Trula had planned to call earlier with her good news of job, drug treatment underway and Alex in her life, but now had to squeeze those simple achievements in alongside the figurative elephant in the conversation, that she was suddenly very rich.

Her mother was skeptical. "Are you certain, dear? You know sometimes these things are, what do they call them, er, scams. You know, like that silly Nigerian prince who's constantly emailing everyone. You haven't fallen for one of those pitches, have you?"

"No, mom, this is the government lottery corporation. You know the Lotto7 tickets that they sell everywhere? If you match seven numbers, you win. I did—I picked all the numbers."

"Oh, well, then I guess that's very good news." There was a pause as she listened to her husband in the background. "Your father says that you need a lawyer and an accountant."

"Wait. What's that, dear?"

Trula was confused. "Who me? I didn't say anything."

Her mother was obviously getting a lot of advice in her other ear. "Yes, er, no, not you. Your father has a lot to tell you. Maybe you should talk to him yourself."

Trula could wait for his, "Don't fuck it up," advice.

"Tell him that I'll call him before I get the cheque. He can handle as much of it or as little as he wants to, or maybe he can recommend somebody."

Her mother passed that on.

"He says, OK." He hadn't yet said congratulations.

Her mother passed a minute in other pleasantries, including now-minor good news that her brother's wife was expecting again. She was obviously waiting for her father to leave the room.

Then, in a low voice, she asked, "You won't have trouble handling this will you?"

Trula knew that, unsaid, she meant, "You won't go on a drug-fueled bender and blow it all?"

She replied, "I have lots of support from my friends, all sober by the way, who will keep a close eye on me."

"Yes, but you know that you have your special problems—you know, er, in sticking with things. I know how easy it is to just want to step away."

Trula frowned, "What do you mean, step away?"

Her mother hedged, "Well, I remember, when you were younger, that you sometimes handled problems by just turning them off."

It sounded like polite-speak code. "Turning them off? What do you mean?"

Her mother was both fearful and frustrated. "Oh, Trula. Do you think that I don't know? You would never tell me, but I knew what you were doing. I could feel it when you changed things. When anyone changes things, we all feel it."

It took a moment to click. She finally asked, "Do you mean my do-overs? How do you know about those?"

"Well, I'm sorry that I never said anything, I was afraid. I know that people don't believe. I wasn't sure about you and I couldn't risk you not believing me. You feeling like I was accusing you of something. Maybe thinking that I was crazy."

Trula felt a cold chill run up her spine. "Not believing what?"

Her mother took in a long breath, then finally said. "Me, telling you that we can change reality. I could do it too, once."

Trula was dumbfounded. "You could?"

"I can't really tell time either. Didn't you ever notice? I knew that you couldn't, but I hoped that you'd never figure the rest of it out."

"Did you ever do it? I mean, just step out and re-run a situation?"

Her mother hesitated, maybe making sure her father had left the room.

She admitted, "Yes, when I was young. When you're a child, reality is fluid anyway. Time, space, motion—relatively, they all work differently. Only a few people have the gift to see the openings or doorways, I used to call them, or maybe, to feel the burden of needing to use them. Most people are afraid to go to Misplacea, like it's a bad dream—they never try."

Trula felt like the floor was falling out from under her.

After a long silence, she demanded, "If you knew about me, why didn't you do something? Why didn't we sit quietly somewhere when I was twelve so you could warn me off? What did you call it? Misplaced? Is that a medical term or just what happens? You do know my fucked-up life is entirely due to dealing with the pain of stepping through, don't you?"

He mother was crying. "No, I don't know that. I denied it and you never told me. Even though I felt it. I wanted it to be different for you. It's so dangerous. I felt like if you never say the word cancer, you believe your family won't get it. Guess I just hoped that you would find your way through or would forget about it."

Trula didn't know what else to say. All the years gone by when she felt entirely alone with her affliction might have been avoided. It was a stunning revelation and it pissed her off.

"Well, you don't have to worry about that now, mother. I've learned how to cope without it. I don't do it anymore and never will again."

Her mother was quiet for a moment, but then said. "So, that wasn't you going through then, on the last two Friday afternoons? The disturbance felt so close—I was certain that it was you. I've been worried sick for you. At your age, stepping through could kill you. Please never allow the possibility."

Trula didn't know what to say. Of-course it was her. She had stepped not just out of reality, but back in time, twice. If her mother felt her small accommodations with reality in the past, she must certainly have felt Friday's jump.

She decided to lie. "No, it wasn't me. Don't know what you felt, but it wasn't me doing anything."

Her mother was silent for another long moment. "Well, that's good. The stupid thought occurred to me after you said you won the lottery on Friday. Considering, I never knew you to play. Guess, it's all just a coincidence. Me being paranoid, you know? I'm sorry."

"That's OK, mom." The lie hung in the air in front of her. Lying had often been her first stumble on the slippery slope of crashing out and medicating her brain to mush in the past.

She needed to get off the phone. "I'll call you when I know more. Still need to do forms and stuff. It'll be sometime next week."

Her mother sounded defeated. "OK, then. I hope that it's OK. Just please be careful, dear."

After she hung up, she couldn't help but feel like her mother was warning her, not just about the physical toll of stepping out, but about unforeseen consequences to follow. What was that all about? And she said, "We all can." What did that mean: all? She knew that they needed to talk, long and honestly away from any distractions. Once she had the money in the bank, she would have all the time in the world to do that. She decided that it could wait.

Alex was having a laugh-filled conversation on his phone with someone. She didn't know if it was about her or about his good luck in picking up a serial-loser tramp one week before she became the big winner. She could imagine the verbal digs he might be getting from his buds that she didn't know yet. But he couldn't imagine everything she needed to deal with right now. She still couldn't tell him. She was glad that he was laughing. One of them deserved to be happy about this situation.

Leena came in mid-evening, grinning from ear-to-ear. She wasn't alone. Sam trailed after her. They both got Trula in their sights and started squealing.

Leena finally said, "Holy shit, sister. Is it true? It's not some other Trula Bausch is it? One who looks exactly like you and was dancing around Heung's with strangers this morning?"

Trula couldn't help but rise out of her temporary gloom. "Yeah, that was me. Stupidly. Somehow picked all seven numbers last night. Weird, but true. Thinkin now I probably should have kept it a secret for a while, but Well, er Woo-Jin, kind of let it out of the bag as soon as he ran the ticket. So, I'm the star for the moment."

Leena came over to hug her. "You deserve it. I'm so happy for you."

Sam had followed. She came in for a hug too. Then they both hugged Alex. He was rich too now. Everybody was a little richer. She still planned to spread it around. Maybe being nice to as many people as possible was the way to make this all OK?

After a while, the phones stopped buzzing. Probably the message boxes were just full. They had covered the waterfront of people they cared about. Lots of others would be making hay from their second or third-degree relationship with her. She imagined cousins that she hadn't seen since she was a kid suddenly popping up. Past workplace associates, even past bosses, would likely try to claim some small part of her good luck, if not her money. That was all before the charities and weepy causes would arrive. Her dad was right; no matter how good her intentions, she would need to dig a self-preservation moat around herself and fill it with lawyers and accountants.

Once she and Alex were alone, she related some parts of the conversation with her mother, without being specific. She only said that her mother had revealed a previously unknown mental affliction and then wished that she might not get it.

Alex shook his head. "Geez, how did she get to that from your great news about suddenly being rich?"

"She seems to think that I have a weak head or weak will or something and will put my winnings up my nose or in a vein."

"Wow. Is it just sour grapes? Like you won't need her for anything anymore, so she's bitter about it. Maybe fearful of losing you? Could see that. Think the book would say to watch out for resentment."

Trula wished that she could just tell the truth. "Maybe, but probably not. My dad's pretty much an alcoholic; she's had her own problems. Think that she's just warning me to be careful who or what I trust, including my own good intentions."

Alex nodded. "Maybe useful advice then?"

Trula shrugged. "They'll probably think that giving most of it away is falling for fake appeals from people who really don't need it. And, also a sign of a week head. They're sort of, "Get a job, ya bum," types. They worked for their money, so they figure everyone else should too."

He grinned, "Then, I hope that you really do piss them off. It comes back around, you know. Riches come in all kinds of forms and from the most unlikely sources. You're an angel who will do no wrong. Just follow your heart, is my advice. Unsolicited, as it is."

They both laughed. She just wanted to keep doing that, but the dark clouds were scuttling around the edges of her mind. She needed to get on with doing something to clear the sky.

Over a second or third beer, settled on the couch and staring at the turned-off TV, she remembered her promise.

She said, "Hey, I want to go see Richard."

Alex tipped his head a little. "Who?"

She sat forward and turned to him. "Richard. Larvie, to you, I guess. He's still a buddy of yours, right? You and Bob said that he worked on the crew for a while."

Alex nodded slowly. "Yeah. I remember that discussion. We also said that he's pretty out of it right now with his drug problems. I still don't get how you would know him. He definitely hasn't been around in the last week."

She almost stuck her foot into this discontinuity the last time it came up. She knew that she worked with Richard, but now it was in a different reality that maybe was still going on or maybe came to an end when she jumped back. She wasn't used to differences, but guessed that they could happen. She had to tell a different story now or Alex might start to question her sanity.

Trula responded, "Yeah, I know that. I must have met him on the street somewhere. Not sure how I know him, but he is someone I care about for some reason. I'll admit to a few blackout periods when I mixed way too much booze in with the Oxy. Guess maybe in there somewhere we might have shared the same bench in some park. Who knows? But he is one person that I want to help, right now."

Alex nodded again. "OK. Uh, guess I can go with that. We'd have to track him down though. Think he probably still has a place, but I doubt that it's as simple as dropping in. Will he know who you are?"

She couldn't guess at the answer. "Hope so, maybe. Doesn't matter though, eh? You can introduce me as your benevolent friend."

He shrugged. "Sure. Guess that could work. But you do realize that he may not want any help, right? PTSD is tough. Good intentions don't fix it. You ready for that?"

She didn't know how she would handle rejection. She guessed that she could eventually help him from a distance, if need be, by just putting enough money in the right hands, but she hoped that it might be different. Maybe she was still dreaming, but in her mind, Richard was the one of the most together people she knew. He was the kind of guy she would like to have close by when she needed him. She didn't know why she felt that way, but if she needed him, then he needed her. She just had to leap in and try, resistance or no.

She responded, "I can be pretty determined. I've seen the bottom, from a distance thankfully, but close enough that I don't want any friend of mine ending up there."

Alex nodded. "Friend, huh? OK then, in the morning we'll go find Larvie and buy him breakfast. On me. Well, on your tab, to be settled later. You can make your pitch. Now, I think that we should go practice being nice to each other some more, while we have a little peace and quiet. It's been a long day."

Sunday morning, the bed took on the characteristics of a remote island. With their feet tucked-in and the door closed, they could pretend that there wasn't a world going nuts out there. No one could call them, as the island didn't have cell phones. No-one could get in their face as there was an ocean to cross. Nothing could be expected as they owed no-one either their time or their attention.

When they were finally just laying there daydreaming, possibly both working on the same fantasy, the morning finally intruded via the sun's bright outline around the old roller-style draw blind covering Trula's window. They had tossed the alarm clock. Alex finally lifted his phone and showed her the digits ten and two zeros.

"What's that?"

"The time. It says that we were supposed to be out of here about two hours ago."

Trula grinned. "Still not getting it. But I'm guessing you can't tell me how many millions of miles our overshoot is, so I'll have to trust you to advise on our next move."

Alex stretched his arms and rolled out of bed. "It means that we're buying your buddy brunch instead of breakfast. But at least the mid-day sun out there will have burned off the frost."

Trula followed him out of bed and out of the bedroom. One nice benefit of getting up late, with a newly-considerate roomie, was that there was a half-pot of coffee waiting. Alex headed for the shower. She came back from the kitchen with two cupfuls.

The search for Larvie started with Alex on the phone calling his known associates. To Trula, the process felt a little like a cop show on TV. One guy knew something, which maybe another could confirm. That guy changed the story somewhat, but was more certain of his answer. After a few calls, they had an address where he was said to be living and a fairly reliable report that he was there yesterday, so might be there today.

She knew her Richard had a military medical allowance that would require a mailing address and a bank account. She hoped that these things hadn't changed in this reality. They defined the difference between being down and being out. She had to be careful in adding too much information to what Alex was getting from others. Her story of a chance encounter wouldn't stand up if she suddenly knew things that only a sober and together Richard could have told her. Larvie, the addict, in trouble, but somehow surviving, would be a completely different person. She had to keep telling herself not to expect too much.

They called for a ride downtown. The address they had was east of the main metro area in a section of once-attractive middle-class homes that were now showing signs of neglect. A couple of blocks removed from the drop-in centres, overnight shelters and public health clinics that were the sentinels of the illicit drug trade, these places could be anything from an up-and-coming bargain-hunting executive reno to a chopped-up ten-tenant flophouse. Gentrification and political maneuvering would eventually push the flophouses out. But, for now, aside from the trim on the shrubs and the giant refuse bins in some driveways. it was hard to tell which was which.

Richard's possible place was in the middle of a block. There were cars parked, suggesting some residents were maybe doing OK. But the shrubs looked like shit. The front porch had four mail boxes and four doorbells. So, the place was chopped up a bit, but only into apartments. On the face of it, the flats inside might not be all that different from hers. Trula hoped for the best.

They had been told that Larvie lived downstairs. It turned out that probably meant in the basement. Two of the buzzers said. 'Main floor' and one said. 'Upper'. The last button, said 'Rear'. A couple had name tags stuck in the little holder, the rear button didn't have any identification. She was about to push it when Alex stopped her.

He suggested, "Let's scout around the back to see if there's a door there. Rear probably means at the back, so he may not even respond to this bell. I'd probably think it was holy-rollers out trying for converts on a Sunday morning. Maybe we can just knock outside a window or a back door. Visibility of someone he knows is likely the best bet for getting his attention."

Trula agreed with his call and followed him up the driveway and around the back of the house. They were clearly on private property now; unlikely that door-to-door pitchmen or Jesus freaks would venture back here. There was a little extension building with an entrance door that might once have been a rear utility services access. The basement windows were small and not very promising for a visible knock.

Alex nodded to the door. "No bell here, but maybe it's not even locked. He could have another door inside."

Trula shrugged. Alex turned the doorknob and, sure enough, it wasn't locked. They could see stairs going down a half flight to a lit corridor in the basement. There was nothing to do but give it a shot. Once they got down the stairs and their eyes adjusted, they could see that the little corridor went all the way to the bottom of stairs at the front of the house. Newish-looking partition walls on either side each had one door. There was just a substantial deadbolt lock in one door, but the other one had a nice enough door handle and a little mat out front. That difference, plus the pair of saggy construction boots parked there said that this door was the basement apartment entrance. The boots were a good sign that someone was in there.

There was nothing to do but knock. An old cellphone number for Larvie in Alex's phone directory rang no-answer with no voicemail. That could mean that it was out of service or that Richard just preferred to neither answer nor get messages. Short of sending a telegram, knocking on the door was the only choice they had.

Alex said, "You go ahead. Maybe a feminine knock-up will get a better response."

Trula punched his shoulder for being dirty, not being familiar with the British term for getting someone out of bed in the morning. Then she knocked. There was no response.

She raised her eyebrows to Alex, asking, "Try again?"

He nodded. "If he's out, the goldfish won't give a damn how often you knock, but if he's just sleeping, or, you know, out of it, may take some noise to bring him to the door."

On the third set of knocks they got a muffled response.

"What the hell, Freddy? It's not even noon yet. Quit bugging me. I'll come upstairs when I'm good and ready."

Alex took this as his cue. He spoke loudly, "Hey, Larvie. Not Freddy. It's Alex—from the crew. Got a friend of yours here. Come to the door."

Fortunately, they didn't need to carry on any further conversation through the door. It immediately opened fully to reveal a much shabbier version of Richard, to Trula, standing in pajama pants and a khaki t-shirt that said: Keep Calm and Stand Very Still. Both Alex and Trula read the t-shirt and couldn't help taking a second to try to figure it out. It had to be a military reference to what to do when stepping on a landmine or something.

Larvie just said, "Snakes." Then, he pointed to his shirt.

They both laughed.

Larvie looked back and forth between them. He got that it was Alex at his door, but had no prior point of reference for Trula. She knew that she'd be skating in her attempt to create some forgettable past encounter that he might accept. She hoped that he might just give her full credit for being OK, just as Alex's friend.

Larvie finally asked, "Hey Alex. What brings you down here?"

He didn't invite them in.

Alex figured he needed to take the lead. "Hey Larv. Just, er, wanted to see how you're doing. Tried the phone, but no answer, eh? Thought that we'd just kick on your door. Maybe drag you out for some breakfast somewhere."

Larvie was looking at him with a completely neutral expression. Military, police, parole officers and others used to bullshit answers all had the blank stare down. It didn't say they didn't believe you. It just said that you hadn't said anything yet to convince them.

Alex kept going. "Hey, the other reason is wanted you to meet, or re-meet I guess, Trula. We're together, as in living together."

He gave Trula a glance with raised eyebrows, hoping that description of their relationship was good enough without pissing her off for being too flippant about it. She nodded OK.

Larvie broke out of his flat stare. He looked over to Trula and smiled. This smile she remembered well.

He said, "Well, that's OK then. I'm pleased to meet you Trula. Or do I know you from somewhere already?"

She had to speak up. "Yeah, uh, Richard. Nice to see you, again. You may not remember me, but we crossed paths at a fundraiser, er last year."

She was taking a wild stab, but she guessed that ex-military, PTSD survivors came out to help each other. Comradery didn't stop the day you left the forces. If she guessed right, the guys who would come out first were the guys who knew the problem best. Using his first name might add some credibility.

He tipped his head, "You mean over at Moss Park. What was it? The Christmas-basket thing?"

She figured that she hit gold on the first try.

"Yeah, that was it. I knew that we met and gabbed there. I had different hair and was all bundled up. Doing one of my community-service stints, truth be told. When Alex mentioned your name as a crew member, I guessed that you were the same guy. How are you?"

Larvie nodded and smiled. "Well, can't say that my memory is that good anymore. But, nice to see you again, I guess. I'm, well, doin OK."

He looked at Alex for some help before turning back to Trula. Was this woman some goody two-shoes come to save him from himself? How much did she know?

Alex caught the implied question and added, "Trula is working on her own meds challenges. They don't call it anything for us civilians, except dealing with a fucked-up life, but she's a good one. She's getting on top of it. Bob dragged her out and he loves her. Course, Bob loves just about anything in a skirt."

They all laughed, knowing Alex had Bob pretty well figured out.

He continued, "She wanted to know why you aren't working with us right now. I told her what I know. Wasn't good enough for her. She's a bit of a bulldog when she gets her teeth into something. So here we are."

Larvie nodded and considered Alex again. He still didn't invite them in.

Alex kept going. "I, er, maybe stupidly, made a commitment on your behalf."

Larvie's expression went back to neutral. He wasn't interested in anyone else's expectations.

"To grab some breakfast with us. Seems to me that the town's most greasy spoon is a short walk away on Sherbourne. We're going. You coming?"

Larvie could have rhymed off a dozen excuses or just said, "No, fuck-off." Had it been Alex alone, he might have. But Trula had his attention. There weren't more than ten people on the planet, including nine of his relatives and his ex who called him Richard. Why was there another? Yeah, she could have researched that, but the way she said it sounded like she had used it before, with his permission. The other thing was her bald-faced lie about meeting him. There was no Christmas basket thing at the armory. He was testing. He had her go on that one but now wanted to know why she was so interested in him. It was worth letting Alex buy him breakfast to find out.

Somehow, when the place smells like sizzling bacon before you even get to the door, your natural inclination is to order bacon. After a polite, but uninteresting discussion about the weather, the various sidewalk people that they passed, the places locked-up or just reopening under a new sign and their unanimous dislike of the coming winter, they got to the restaurant and grabbed a booth. The waitress just assumed coffee all round and started pouring. What they wanted with their bacon became the only question. The men went over-easy, while Trula said, "Scrambled."

Larvie looked sort of OK to Trula, which probably meant that he had access to legit medications. His problem, like hers, was the pervasive need for more than the current prescription. Plus, according to Alex and Bob, he slipped into harder drugs, at least some of the time, and might have a problem with alcohol as well. She guessed being numb is easier than fighting your way off all those helpers, particularly when you can afford it, if you spend your disability allowance on nothing else.

She didn't want to force her way into his life, but she had to find some connection to start with. Later, maybe she could help more. She and Alex agreed that they wouldn't bring up her lottery win. She couldn't hide it, but until today this Larvie didn't know her at all, so wouldn't have paid any attention to posts about her. She wasn't planning to throw money at him or at his problem anyway, except as a last resort. She knew someone else's generosity wouldn't fix her problems, although she had needed it to keep a roof over her head more than once. Larvie seemed not to have that problem.

Before the food got there, she figured she had to take a shot at finding some common ground.

She asked, "So, you worked for Bob, eh? That's painful and fun at the same time, at least for me. First time I've ever had someone see my abilities rather than my problems. I'm looking forward to getting back out with him. How about you?"

Larvie was still working on his coffee. He asked for milk instead of cream and having received the little blue-lettered containers, was carefully adding three to his already full cup. He needed to sip it before stirring in half a pack of sugar. His busy hands provided an excuse for not answering right away.

Finally, he replied, "Yeah, Bob's alright. Unfortunately, his last calls for jobs sort of coincided with me being, well, just between us addicts, fairly stoned. I made the mistake of going to one job anyway, just once, figuring I could fake it. I needed the money—sort of drank and smoked my entire allowance that month. Bad idea. Got sent home with a couple twenties stuffed into my shirt pocket. Haven't been back since."

He paused, then turned to Alex. "Not sure that you guys would have me, even if I was straight-enough. I tend to be so up and down that just my attitude is problem a lot of the time."

Alex got a knee bump from Trula, with the clear message that he should correct Larvie's impression of Bob not wanting him back.

He sputtered a bit getting started. "Hey Larv. Fuck, most of the crew has come through the same shit. It's understood, nobody's perfect. If you're up for work, you tell me. If you have to call off sometimes, that's OK too. Some of the newbies, like Trula here, can pick it up if needed. Once they figure it out that is."

Trula caught the small dig. She responded, "Yeah, well I'm told that I do pretty well. Thinking that might still be, "for a girl," but yeah, we do OK together. You should come out. I'd love to work with you."

The food arrived just then. The interruption of the incoming main plates and toast plate satellites provided a little time for consideration. Coffee pouring and confirmation that they were, "Good for now," took up some more space. When they were all finally a couple bites into the food, Larvie spoke up. At first, he didn't look up.

"Thing is, I don't really get why any of you care what I do. There must be dozens of guys trying to break their habit and needing work. Neither thing really applies to me. I get by, but to be honest, I want my pills, even if I overdo it sometimes. So why am I your cause of the week?"

He paused, then making eye-contact, continued, "And, uh Trula, my memory isn't that bad. There was no Christmas thing. I just threw that up to see if you were for real. We've never met and you know it. Alex is a nice guy; I get that he might be sort of interested in me surviving on principal, but who are you? What do you want from me?"

She was on the spot. His challenge not only put her appeal to him in question, it also confirmed Alex's belief that she had never met Larvie. He couldn't help her; she needed to decide if rescuing her friend Richard was worth telling the truth for.

It only took a moment of consideration. She had to try.

"We have met."

It was all she could say. Faking another lame story of coincidental contact or friend-of-a-friend bullshit wasn't going to cut it. Larvie might be down, but there was nothing defenseless about him. She got the blank stare back. If she was going to succeed in connecting, she would have to tell him the truth.

He shook his head. "I'd remember. My head's a little thick, but I have a keen memory for good-looking women. No offense Alex, but Trula here is memorable, I think you'll agree?"

Alex grinned. "Couldn't agree more."

Trula smiled and nodded, accepting what she guessed was a compliment, although as it was stated, it seemed more like a challenge to her claim to knowing him. It was now or never.

She responded, "You don't remember because the you I know, the one who knows me well, isn't exactly you."

Now both Larvie and Alex were frowning, as each tried to parse what she had just said.

"Give me that again." Larvie was getting a little curious; he actually liked strange people and this chick was getting stranger by the second.

Trula had to spit it out in a way that both men could follow, even if they wouldn't believe her.

"OK. I'll explain, but I need you both to sit still, with no comebacks, for a couple minutes. It's kind of complicated." She paused and looked one to the other. "OK?"

They nodded. They had breakfast to finish and the coffee was pretty good.

Larvie figured, she was OK to look at and a nice story would brighten up the morning. Why not listen?

Trula tried to put everything she knew and felt into the most logical and common-sense explanation she could, knowing full well that it would come across as completely crackers anyway.

"OK then—the truth is that we know each other in another place." That sounded OK, like maybe she meant in Hamilton or in Regina.

She kept going. "It's not an easy place to describe though, because, well, you can't get there from here. There may be people there; in fact, there probably are. And, well, three of those people, are probably us."

She paused, then found a new tack, spilling it out. "I know how this sounds, but in that other place we worked together on Bob's crew last week. You, my friend Richard, helped me out of a jam. You're part-timing as a chef now after your time as an army cook and you got me my new doctor—your doctor: Doc Lana."

She could see that she had lost Alex mid-way through the story, but Larvie was still giving her his full attention. She thought she saw one small moment of thought cross his otherwise stoic face as a brief squint.

She held up a couple fingers to hold any response. "Wait, there's more. I'm here, dragging Alex along, because on Friday you didn't show up for a little party at my house which I invited you to, in the other place. When I asked Bob and Alex where you were, they told me that you weren't ever invited, that I didn't know you and, well, that you, like me, were having some problems with drugs."

She kept her fingers up. "But, that's the bottom line. They are wrong. You are my good friend, whether you know it or not; you helped me a lot and I'm here to help you—if you'll have me."

She dropped her hand. The questions could start.

Alex had lost the thread connecting the pieces. He remembered her wondering about Larvie and acting surprised when they said she didn't know him. But as far as he knew she didn't. She hadn't worked with him and he had gotten her connection to Doc Lana through the back door pharmacy. To him, she was sounding very confused, if not delusional.

Larvie was intrigued by her story, mainly because two parts if it contained information that no-one, would know, except him.

He smiled, looked down at his plate and pushed some home-fries around. "What did you mean when you said I was a cook?"

Trula smiled back. He hadn't called her crazy and he hadn't bolted. But, did he believe her?

She answered, "You were a cook at Base Borden. You told me. Before you left the army, I guess. Do they still call it the army?"

Larvie nodded. "Yeah. Infantry mostly, plus a bunch of other things, depending on how you go to war. So, you think that I was a cook?"

She nodded. "Yeah, and now you, the other you, are working at some high-end restaurant downtown, hoping for full-time hours as some kind of sous-chef."

Larvie smiled. "No shit. Well, that's fucking something." He then laughed out loud.

The other two waited for him to say more. Something about the cooking part was connecting.

Larvie took a drink of coffee and then explained, "That's really fucking weird, cuz I had a transfer to base services in the works during my last tour in Afghanistan. I was gonna learn to be a cook. I planned to do exactly what you just said. Cook my way to a military pension, then get out and work my way into a helper chef's role in some restaurant. If I believed any of what you just told me, I'd say that my other half or whomever you're describing might have pulled it off."

Trula still needed to explain her jump between realities, but didn't want to let this thread get away.

She asked, "So, why didn't you do it?"

Larvie shook his head. He nodded to the food. "Sorry to be graphic over breakfast, but I didn't ever get there because I got blown out of my boots by an IED and had to clean the remains of my corporal and my best friend off my face while crawling deaf and stunned in the dirt."

He paused. None of them said anything.

He took a moment to compose himself, then continued. "My tour was almost up. I was supposed to head back to Canada a week later. I had transfer papers sending me to military cooking school."

Trula was silenced by the cruel facts of Larvie's life. Alex knew some of the story as they had talked numerous times, sometimes as he was pulling Larvie out of the metaphorical gutter. He knew that he had been in and out of hospital for most of a decade after leaving the forces.

Alex said, "I never knew about that part. Thought that you were career special forces, right up to the end."

Larvie nodded. "As it turned out, yeah. I was discharged from the infantry after recovering in Germany. It was rough. My wounds were healed but my head wasn't. Guess they weren't going to trust me with a meat cleaver. Probably a good thing, too."

He turned back to Trula. "I'm hearing a good story from you. One that maybe Alex here helped fill you in on, but I still don't get how you see me as a friend. Not that I don't want to be your friend, particularly if you're Alex's girl, but what's all the crap about working with me last week. Don't get that."

Trula knew she could backpeddle if she wanted. He left her an opening out. They would go their separate ways. She could try to connect with Richard again, just as a new friend. Maybe with some persistence, he would let her in. She had time and she would have money. If he could get his feet under him, she could make his dream of being a chef come true. But she couldn't go there now. Her bigger problem was Alex. He was hearing a wacko story from the woman he was going to live with, maybe for the rest of his life. He had to believe her too.

She looked back and forth. "Give me another minute, the rest takes some explaining."

They both shrugged. Larvie said, "This is most interesting morning I've had in a couple of years. I'm all ears."

They were laughing. That was good.

She continued, "Well, if maybe you found some element of credibility in what I just said, now I'm going to have to ask you to go forward on blind faith and just a little bit of mystical belief." She paused. "OK?"

They were each grinning, probably expecting a punchline to the elaborate joke somewhere in here, but nodded OK.

"The thing is. I can do something that nobody, well almost nobody, else can do." She waited. "I can step between realities."

Alex now asked the question. "What do you mean by step?"

She continued, "It was easy as a kid, I did it all the time. If I didn't like how something was going, I'd just push my way out a door in that space and back into another, maybe back a few thousand miles of rotation. It would be identical: same places, same people, everything, except that I could do it over. Maybe get the right answer this time or duck just in time to miss getting a ball in the face, or maybe catch a cute boy's book as it slid out of his hand. No-one knew. I'd just get a little advantage. I didn't know it at the time, but each time I did it, I wrecked a few nerve ends. As I got older, I did it less because it was tearing me up. The pain started to stick around. And I got onto painkillers."

Neither man said anything. They both sensed that there was more.

Now she needed a moment to recover. She paused, but then looked up and smiled. "Anyway, I haven't done it in a couple years. Shouldn't do it now—it's way too painful. Until last Friday that is. I had a good reason to jump. There was something that I had to go for. It should have been fine. Everything should have been exactly the same. But it wasn't."

Larvie looked at her intently. He said, "When you came back here, I was gone—is that what was different?"

Trula had been holding back tears. Now they started to come. Did he believe her?

"Yeah," she sniffed, "You and your successful career were gone. I fucked up your life."

Alex was completely confused. He liked the story and the weird twist, but it couldn't be true. He was starting to lean towards suggesting that maybe it was a dream or something, when Larvie spoke up.

"Hey, first thing. It seems to me like you did just the opposite. You just told me that you've seen me doing everything I once dreamed of doing. In a different, what did you call it, reality, maybe? But it still sounds like it was me doing it."

Trula couldn't talk. She was balling up napkins trying to keep from bawling out loud.

Alex couldn't help himself. "You believe all this, Larvie?"

He reached around Trula and hugged her. "I love this lady, but I think that maybe this isn't real. Maybe it's a really vivid dream or something. Maybe we need to take some time and work through it, you know, maybe with some help."

Larvie laughed, then said. "Of course, I fucking believe her. And not because she's never told me a lie before. We actually never have met. This one of her and this one of me. In this life, she is a brand-new breath of fantastic possibility. One that I've been searching for, for a long time."

He got a smile out of Trula. He reached across and squeezed her hand before continuing.

"I can add something to your story. Something you will get that no one else ever could. It's been my secret since my last day at war." He paused to keep his voice from breaking, then stated, "I believe her because she's not the first reality-jumper that I've met."

Now both Alex and Trula looked over at him. They waited.

He took time to steady his breath, then continued, "In Panjwaii. On that last patrol. Our squad was moving up behind a high mud wall checking that the fucking Taliban hadn't screwed with an irrigation ditch the Canadian government was paying to have dug. It ran out to water the Jesus poppy fields, if you can believe it. But whatever made the local economy tick and kept young guys busy was somehow OK, then."

"Anyway, we had to walk the length of it a couple times a week in small squads to enforce the turf. We took different routes at different times. Tried not to be predictable. But we always knew the bad guys were around. They'd take pot shots and run away. Occasionally some really dumb ones would mount a machine gun or something more sinister and fire off clips until we wiped them out."

"Anyway, IEDs, you know—buried bombs, were the greatest danger. These locals were really fucking patient. They'd wait days or weeks, watching for someone to come along. If we were unlucky, we'd be the ones."

Now they knew more about what had happened to him. Trula and Alex nodded, knowing where the story was going.

"Anyway, that day, we're approaching a wide break in the wall. The corporal and another guy had point. Our sergeant, me and others were strung out behind. We closed up to cover for fire as we breached the protection of the wall and that's when the IED went off. It was right in the gap."

"My sergeant, a real tough broad named Lise Dufoir, was directly behind me. I must have landed on top of her, probably damn near squashed her, but she didn't get as much of the blast. The last thing I remember was her kneeling over me saying that she would fix it. That's what she said, "I will fix it." He emphasized the words with air quotes.

He added, "She sort-of shimmered and disappeared. Then I blacked out."

Trula knew he had more to say, but she had to ask. "So, you think that she could step out, that she moved to another reality?"

Larvie shrugged. "Hey, I didn't know shit at the time. I was blown up, remember?"

He continued, "Anyway, I'm full of shrapnel and stone chips, waiting for medical evac and she appears again in my line of sight. She's leaning in to talk to me. It's fucking noisy with choppers spinning up."

"She shouts: "I'm so sorry, I can't change it for you. Not here. But, somewhere else, Bill and Naseem are OK. You too. Believe that." Those were her exact words."

He paused again, after using his dead comrades' names for the first time in nearly a decade.

He continued, "I had no clue if I heard her right or what she meant. I was bleeding and already on morphine. I didn't know who was dead then. But, later, I always wondered. Did she really mean that she had somehow saved those guys in some other reality? I never saw her again. Don't know where she ended up."

They were all silent. Alex looked back and forth between them. It was obvious that he was the only doubter at the table.

Larvie, maybe now Richard, turned to her and said, "I guess what you're telling me, my good friend Trula, is that is exactly what she meant. That somewhere, what did you call it, in a different reality, those guys are OK? That they got home and that they have families. And that I went to cooking school!"

Now both he and Trula were in tears. He grinned through them. "Oh boy, do I want to believe every word you've said."

When they got back to the house, Alex was still dumbfounded by their conversation with Larvie. He couldn't believe what he heard, but kept telling himself that maybe he'd better learn to accept what Trula told them. That they found Larvie, found him in not bad shape, learned so much more about his life and, to top it off, had him accept Trula's time-shifting story entirely, was all amazing. But, one thing was now stuck in his head, nagging at the more or less pleasant revelations of the day.

When they were settled in, kicking around the possibility of a nap or some fun in the bedroom before a nap, he finally had the chance to ask.

"You said that you did something on Friday that you shouldn't be doing because it's too dangerous or too painful."

Trula answered, "Yeah. My last ever reality shift. Still recovering with some extra meds, but getting better, slowly."

"You said you did it because you had to go for something. Did I hear that right?"

She mumbled quietly, "Yeah."

He said, "I'm still processing—it's a lot to deal with. I'm trying to fit it into my understanding of how the world works. Have to admit that I'm having a lot of trouble getting the pieces to click in. You OK with me still being, uh, a little skeptical?"

She was relieved and smiled. "Yeah. In fact, I just need a very small bit of, how do they say it, "suspended disbelief"? Just need you to let one tiny bit of mystical possibility sneak in."

Alex now laughed, "That's easy enough. I think that I can allow possibilities. We all do, eh? Possibly there's God up there; possibly there are aliens living in their own little brick houses somewhere way out there; possibly we'll cure all diseases one day. Believing in possibilities isn't a lonely place. It's the acceptance of an impossibility that takes me down a pretty-much deserted road. Well, except that you and Larvie are there waiting for me. I guess it's not so lonely. I think that I could follow you guys there, with some time to let it sink in."

Trula laughed too. "Well, however half-assed that admission was, I'll take it. If you can say it's possible, even if you pile all sorts of conditions and limitations on top of your statement, I'll be thrilled. And I'll never bring it up again."

They were quiet. Both thought that they might have turned a corner.

She added, "Plus, it's all in the past now. Not something that I will even need to even consider again. Burning buildings, aside."

He laughed and added, "Yeah, guess that you've got just about anything you might ever need now."

She grunted, "Not yet. There's still the paperwork, standing there to get the big cheque and then sitting through my father's strident advice on how not to piss it away. But just a little more of that pain and we'll be there."

He waited a few moments before asking.

"So, is that the big thing you mentioned to Larvie? You somehow figured out how to, uh, reality-jump your way to knowing the Lotto7 number. Did you really win it by luck or did you do something else?"

She felt her cheeks burning. She hadn't meant to admit that she used her strange ability and the street pills to cheat, but he figured it out. God, once Richard learned of her win, he'd know it too. Her mother had already guessed. Groups of people didn't keep secrets very well. She had to decide whether to lie, again, or to just be honest.

She admitted, "Once I figured out how to do it, it didn't seem like such a big thing. Hey, someone had to win. I certainly needed something in my life to change. It was such a long shot that I kind of concluded that I was still depending on good luck, you know? It was a risk. Could have just got sick. Could have ended up in hospital or in the looney bin. But I took a chance, like everybody else. Mine paid off. I'm not sorry."

He wasn't sure how to react. It was his stupid fault for not telling her the truth about his family wealth. They didn't need the lottery win to be rich. If he had known, or believed, that any of it was possible and that she would take a huge risk to try for a big win, he would have stopped her. It was all too quick. A few more weeks or even just a few more days and they might have been there. He would have been comfortable telling her; she would have known that she could depend on him. They'd be starting with no dishonest overhang. On either side.

He had to ask. "Is it legal?"

She laughed. "Not to be argumentative, but is what legal?"

He grunted, "Well, cheating to find out the number ahead of time."

She knew that this could become an argument that she'd rather avoid, but it sounded like he was suggesting that there was some sort of ethical reason for her not to win.

"And how might I have done that, officer? Not sure what you're getting at."

He could feel the tension rising, but wanted to know how she actually felt.

He responded, "Well, you didn't use random luck, you fixed the win. Right? Maybe they can't investigate that, but you'll always know."

She was put-off and burst out. "Here I am, with, as you know, my last twenty bucks in my pocket and I'm supposed to worry whether it's ethical to claim a public lottery prize? Spare me the morality lesson. I think that I have as much right to the money as the next guy."

She added, "Plus, it's all a myth, right? No-one can look into the future and know a number. Every pick is a hunch, right? How the fuck did I know what number would come up? Far as anybody is concerned, I guessed just like everyone else does. And I got lucky!"

Now she was pissed. They both knew that continuing the discussion wasn't going to be good for them. They had worked out tensions already a couple times. If it kept coming up, they were doomed. They both decided to shut up.

Alex eventually leaned forward and turned to face her. He leaned in and kissed her.

"Let's go to bed."

The discussion was over for now. She hoped that it was over forever.

A romp and a nap later, they were laying in bed staring at the ceiling as the light slipped out of the day. The phones stopped buzzing, not because the message boxes were full, but because people stopped calling. Trula wondered if that was it? Was she not even two day's news to people? She could only hope.

Alex was stuck on a different train of thought. He knew that they couldn't afford to have any of out-of-bounds areas between them. He'd seen what could happen in his family. Taboo subjects that were too painful or too likely to prompt a punch-up among uncles to ever be brought up—until the Ouzo started flowing that is. Or until someone felt compelled to take a low blow shot across the big dining table. Then the hidden truth might be launched like a cannon ball across a relative's bow. The families would fall apart to fortified camps of believers and deniers. Couples did too. His own parents turned cold and remote from each other over unspoken truths. They stuck it out for decades, as that's what old families did. Didn't happen anymore. He was worried.

There was a distant pounding.

"That upstairs?"

"He's away."

It went away. It came again.

"Sounds like maybe a woodpecker."

"Fucking big woodpecker. With a dull beak. Off-season anyway."

"Front door then?"

"Possible."

It went away. It came again.

"Persistent"

"Determined, I'd say."

"Toss you for it."

"You should go."

"Why me?"

"If it's some charity case, you can deny that I live here."

"Yeah, guess that might work."

Alex fell out of bed and found his jeans in the half-light. He considered if shoes were needed, then skipped them. He got his tee-shirt on, backwards, but spun it around before he got to the door.

The figure on the other side was a nicely-dressed woman.

He hoped that he didn't look like he'd just fallen out of bed after fucking the afternoon away.

The woman had a leather portfolio. She smiled tightly, but didn't say anything until after she retrieved a business card, which she presented to Alex.

"Is Trula Bausch in?"

Alex looked at the card and saw the lottery corporation logo. The print was too small to quickly pick up anything else, including her name.

He asked, "Paperwork?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Come in. Please grab a chair." He pointed to the kitchen table.

"She's, uh, busy, uh, in her study. I'll just get her."

The woman nodded and moved towards the kitchen. He checked his fly, just to be sure that he'd remembered it, ran a hand through his unruly hair and ducked back towards the bedroom.

Trula was already halfway through a panic put-together. She had wisely pulled a sweater over her wrinkled t-shirt. Her jeans were tight enough that wrinkles didn't have much of a chance. A rapid pull-though of a hairbrush and a slap of water to her face completed the clean-up. She gargled another palmful of water, spit and got ready to head out front. She retrieved the ticket from on top of her bureau.

Alex intercepted her. "Feet."

"What?"

"She has heels on. Guessin you might want to at least go with slippers."

She laughed. "Hey, my toes are worth two million each, bud." She kicked her feet into flipflops.

In the kitchen, they went through the standard formalities of offering and declining coffee. Trula then offered water, which was also declined. She grabbed a glassful, suspecting a serious case of dry mouth to follow.

The Integrity Department Representative, who still hadn't introduced herself beyond her business card, opened up.

"Well, first let me say congratulations. You are very lucky to be the only winner from Friday's Lotto7 draw."

Trula nodded. "I am. Lucky. And happy. Thank-you. All still seems unreal though."

The Rep nodded, reprising her tight smile from the doorway. "Yes, I'm sure it seems that way. But it is real. We just need to complete some formalities."

Trula shut up. She decided that simple answers would be best, with nothing extra volunteered. She didn't know why, but this person had an aura of denial, if such a thing was possible. She guessed that was normal in an era of not believing anything you heard or read. She looked over to Alex, who was parked against the farthest corner of the kitchen counter. He gave her a completely flat return gaze. They had an understanding.

The Rep got out some multi-copy forms. She organized them in some sort of priority, then clicked her silver ballpoint pen into action.

She said, "Let's just go through these first."

The first forms turned out to be painless. She filled in exact details of Trula's address and other contact information. Trula agreed that she was of legal age, which her ragged birth certificate wallet card confirmed. She also confirmed that she was the one and only owner of the ticket, now resting in the middle of the table. Finally, they got to some harder questions.

"How would you describe your relationship with Woo-Jin Heung?"

Trula didn't get it. "Relationship?"

"Yes." There was no help or elaboration.

"Well, uh, he's my guy at the Variety, I guess. He's the only guy at the Variety."

The Rep checked something on a small notepad. She stated, "I understand that he counselled you on how to play the lottery."

Trula was wary. Was that a problem? "On how to fill in the card, yeah. I was a little rusty, I guess."

"Yes, so I understand. You played an unusual number on Friday morning?"

The needle on Trula's defense meter was bouncing up.

"Uh, yeah. Dumb, I guess. But like I said, I had pretty much forgotten how to play. Thought practice might help. Just to see how the system worked. Didn't expect to win anything."

The Rep added a note to her little book.

"I see." She checked her prior notes. "Then you came back later in the evening and played just one number?"

Trula frowned. "How do you know all this?"

The Rep looked up from her notes. She glanced from Trula to Alex in the corner and back. There was no smile.

"Lotto7 is played on a computerized system. It records every input, of course. Plus, Mr. Heung indicated that he was quite confused by your playing choices."

Alex could feel Trula losing confidence. He came over to sit beside her. His movement interrupted her response. He smiled at Trula, then turned to the woman.

"Notice that you're off your required forms there. Are we done with those now and is there anything else specific that your required to get?"

He put his emphasis on "required," then leaned forward to let her know that he was joining the conversation.

The Rep kept her attention on him for a moment, but responded by directing her next comments at Trula.

"Well, as I'm sure you can understand, Ms Bausch, we are dealing with quite a bit of money here. There have been problems with fraud in the past. I can assure you that we are not suggesting anything like that in this case, but due to past concerns, we do need to document any irregularities."

Alex persisted. "Are you finding any irregularities?"

She brought up the smile. "No. None as yet anyway. This will just take a few more minutes and I'll be on my way."

Alex nodded. He didn't say any more, but had established that he was prepared to intervene if the interview got abusive.

The Rep consulted her notes again. "Let me clarify just one more thing then—purely routine." She nodded towards Alex.

Trula appreciated the break that Alex had provided. She was ready to carry on.

The Rep pointed to the ticket, which had been lying untouched in the middle of table, then proceeded.

"The number." She passed her finger over it. "How did you pick it?"

Trula already told Well that she used family birthdays. She assumed that he told the Rep and that it was in her notes. She couldn't come up with a different story now.

"Uh, it's a combination of family birthdays."

The Rep smiled and nodded. "Yes, lots of players use that method to determine their favourite numbers. Very common. Most play them every draw."

She paused, then asked, "Do you play them often?"

Trula was in a hole and she knew it. "No, just this once. It was a hunch, you know. Something, little bird maybe, told me that Friday was the night to play them."

The Rep nodded, with her little smile returning. She picked up the ticket. "Unusual combination, for birthdays. She read out: 22 – 26 – 32 – 38 – 42 – 43. If you don't mind me asking, how do those numbers fit the birthdays?"

Trula couldn't hope to make anything up.

She bluffed. "I do mind, sorry. It's a formula that I worked out: days ahead, days before, multiply for old folks, et cetera. Nothing that I can easily explain, or want to. I plan to use the formula again. Don't want anybody else using it. Trust you can understand that."

The Rep blinked once, then let the question go. "I see. Well, that certainly is your right."

Trula quietly breathed a sigh of relief. She tried to show no emotion but was certain that she had flushed and was looking very guilty.

The Rep started packing-up. She showed Trula where to sign each form. Then she took a close-up picture of the ticket with her phone.

When she was almost done packing up, she stopped and flipped her notebook open again.

She seemed a little flustered. "Oh, apologies. There was one more thing. Just an irregularity, as we call them, but perhaps you can clear it up for me?"

Trula figured that she was clear already. "Sure, if I can."

The Rep nodded, now with complete composure, and smiled at both of them in turn.

She referenced her notes with her finger. "It's just about the number sequence one more time. I was a little confused when I talked to Mr. Heung, as he said that the first time he asked you, you told him that you knew the winning number sequence before the draw."

She paused, leaving the statement hanging there, then continued, "Do you recall telling him that?"

Trula's flush came back with a vengeance. She had no explanation—except the truth. She couldn't use that, not here.

"Uh, no I don't recall saying that. Perhaps he misheard me? His first language is Korean, I believe. Might have said something like I knew that sequence was a winner, after it won. Kind of thing people say, about race horses, you know, to make themselves feel smart. Might have said that, I guess."

The Rep nodded. "Yes, I'm sure that's the case." She stared at Alex, then at Trula again, before flashing the smile.

She got up from the table. "Well, I'll be off then. Thank-you for your cooperation."

Trula had to say something. "So, that's it then? When can we come down, for the cheque thing, you know? I could really use some of that money."

The Rep carried on moving towards the door without saying anything. She was going to let herself out. At the door, she turned and answered. "We'll have to let you know about the cheque presentation. Someone will certainly be in touch."

Then she was gone.

For a couple minutes neither of them said anything. It occurred to Trula that one of them should make sure that she had actually descended the outside steps and left. It occurred to Alex that he should check the underside of the kitchen table for an electronic bug. They both followed through on their thoughts. Trula came back to the kitchen to find him on the floor scrutinizing the parts of the table the Rep might have reached.

"It's clean." He got up. Trula couldn't help laughing at him.

"You think that they'd go that far?"

"Hey, they probably pay an investigator like her a commission. For everything that they keep in the provincial treasury rather than paying out. Five percent on twenty-two million will buy you most of a house in this part of town. Spies and crooks would go a lot farther for a lot less."

Trula wanted to keep laughing but felt like she had a stone in her stomach.

She asked, quietly, "Do you think she bought it?"

Alex wasn't sure what the Rep thought, but couldn't see how the corporation could deny the win.

"What can they do? They'd have to prove something. You've got a valid ticket. A claim of mystical powers isn't going to stand up in court. They'd look silly even suggesting it."

Trula nodded, somewhat appeased. "So why was she so intent on knowing how I picked the number? Like she said, it's a computerized system. Tight as a drum. No simple girl is going to break in and fix the draw. Why does it matter what I did? I won."

Alex came over and hugged her. "I'm sure that's true. They had cases of stolen tickets before with the store owner's wife or brother winning big. It spooked them, is all. They have to be super careful now. Think that she's just doing her job. You know, so that nobody can criticize them. She didn't suggest anything improper. Let's not worry about it."

He said it to reassure her, but in his heart, he wished again that the whole thing wasn't happening.

### Chapter 25 – R.01 – A New Day

Monday wake-up was late. Alex was in bed beside Trula, but they were just bedmates with enough space in between them to satisfy a school trip chaperone. They weren't even naked, which told a story more about the night before than the morning. Getting put to bed with her shirt on was becoming a bad habit. As the already-up sun was flooding the room with too much light for sleeping, she was reluctantly giving in to the need to get up and deal with her life, once again. Was she deciding something by agreeing to try another full day? Maybe? Maybe not? Her checklist of things she needed to do before killing herself was a little shorter. She was making progress, but she couldn't say towards what.

Leena had gone off to work. Alex said that he wasn't going to work. He made some calls. She guessed he was skipping for her benefit. He thought that she was crazy, after all. Wouldn't do to leave a crazy person on her own in a house full of sharp things. He was being attentive, but probably for all the wrong reasons.

They hadn't worked out much of their disagreement, by mutual agreement. She was so beat when she staggered back from her parents that she had no energy for any discussion. He was probably glad to avoid the subject that had driven her away, or more accurately, that had caused her to push him away. He came back knowing there was a risk of another blow-up; she was still vulnerable and pissed about things he wasn't understanding.

Alex wasn't about to abandon her, even if that's what she told him to do. Maybe they didn't have much chance of a real future together, but he wanted to decide that somewhere down the road; after she was healthy again; after they got over the week-end crisis. He had searched his heart for his true feelings and felt that he could learn to accept her, no matter how weird her delusions. If they got no worse, he could live with them. Lots of people believed strange things. He was strange enough too.

Trula became aware of a thumping sound somewhere in the house. Was the landlord starting to renovate already? Then it stopped. A few seconds later, it came again. It was actually a sharp knocking. Another break followed. Only on the third repetition did she figure out that someone was knocking on the front door, persistently.

She thought about poking Alex to go see, but decided that she needed to be up anyway. It was probably just a signed-for delivery. Except, delivery guys only knocked once, then left a missed-you note. This person really wanted her attention. Her last thought, before throwing on her bathrobe and moving quickly towards the door, was: "Shit, it's the police. Someone's died."

It wasn't the police. It was Richard. He grinned when she poked her head into the door opening.

He said, "I was ready to give up, but after humping all the way up here to surprise you, I wasn't going to give up easily. Guess, I'm kinda that way."

He had a large paper bag under his arm. He hefted it up and patted the bottom. "I'm here to make you breakfast. Did I tell you that I'm a pretty good cook? All my recipes are for sittings of a hundred, but I can cut one down."

She was still standing there blinking. Richard coming to her door unannounced was yet another little stopper to her plan. She owed him her life. She couldn't possibly say no.

She cracked a crooked smile. "Oh, Richard. Come in, come in."

She stepped back and fumbled at getting her housecoat tied up with belt that she had scrounged off Leena, her own still missing. She had hustled out so quickly that she was standing in bare feet. An open housecoat might test the ability of her oversized t-shirt to cover all her parts with appropriate modesty. Her XXXL-size tee said: Stay Calm and Rotate, with a crest derived from an upward third digit. Somebody, a male, left it behind. She couldn't remember who—there were a couple oversized guys in her past, when she sought our metaphorical protectors during one of her emotional, Alice-is-shrinking, phases. The shirt was the only memorable thing from the era. It should be covered.

Once Richard was in and had a chance to set his bag down on the table, she grabbed him in a full bear hug. He eventually put his arms around her too. She wasn't letting him go anywhere.

She blurted, "Oh, Richard. I'd be dead if it weren't for you. Thought that maybe I'd never get a chance to thank you. But now you're here, just like that. I'm still a mess, but at least I'm alive. I don't know what to say. Thanks, just seems inadequate."

He was embarrassed and gently struggled to retreat out of her grasp, just a little. She pulled back to only inches apart, face to face. She was barely dressed and might be planning to kiss him, for all he knew. He did know that this was close to being dangerous. He didn't know if Alex was here. Too-close for too-long was a potentially-misunderstood situation he didn't want to trip into, whether Alex was about or wasn't.

Trula finally let him go. To Richard, the release seemed a little like someone letting go of a close relative who's going off to live in another land. She said that she was happy, but her tearful expression told a different story. Had she been hanging on because of her close call or because she was now afraid of losing something else?

He asked, "Hey, you OK?"

He should have left air space for an answer, but nervously kept talking. "I'm glad that you're back on your feet. I was worried that we might have done some damage to you. Plus, hospitals, eh? You're lucky to come out healthier than you went in. Even just the ER. I fucking avoid them at all cost. But we didn't have much choice there. Once a firefighter hooks you up, you're pretty much guaranteed a trip in."

He wasn't letting her respond. He knew that he talked to avoid stressing out and also blabbed on when he didn't want to hear what somebody had to say. He forced himself to stop talking and moving around to just let her speak.

She'd shut down the tears. "Yeah, I'm OK now, I guess. Fucking embarrassed for sure. Been mending fences a little and trying to explain my stupidity to those who care. But an overdose is an overdose. Not like I broke my wrist or got the flu. My head was in a strange place, but that's no excuse—I knew better. Those pills should have gone right in the garbage, particularly after you went out of your way to get me good ones from Doc Lana."

He was still in listening mode. He nodded but didn't say anything.

She laughed, "Guess, I'm going to get shit from her when she gets the hospital report. I almost told them my MD was my old childhood doctor, who happens to be dead. It might have been easier than trying to explain to her."

Now he had something useful to say. "Nah, she's not like that. She might ask you where you got them. The pills. Tell her the truth. That's because the contaminated stuff tends to come in waves as some shithead cook floods the market with his death drugs. But what you do to yourself is up to you. She'll tell you to be more careful and to get back on program, that's all."

Fear of facing her new doc after screwing-up was actually one of the things on her "give it up" list. She'd been yelled at by so many supposed professionals over the years that she didn't think she could face another lecture. Maybe she should hang on long enough to see her one more time? It was a thought.

Richard moved into the kitchen to start breaking out his supplies. He didn't tell her what he was going to make, but she saw eggs and various containers coming out onto the counter, so guessed maybe an omelette.

He asked, "Hey, is Alex here? I planned to feed three of us, or maybe four, if Leena was here, but I figured she would be at work."

Trula nodded. "Yeah, she is. He's back there somewhere. Probably in the shower by now. Which is what I should do, after he gets out." She paused, still trying to figure out how Richard had known that she needed him today. "Plus, get dressed."

She finally found a little laugh. "God, I look like my worst nightmare. Ratty housecoat, no make-up and weepy—a.k.a. trailer trash."

Richard grinned, but stayed away from commenting. Trula, tousled, dewy and fresh out of bed was just fine by him. He could imagine her losing the bathrobe and falling back into bed, soft and warm under the covers. He shook his head, consciously putting the flight of fantasy away.

Alex came out. He was surprised to see Larvie. He heard the knocking and talking at the door but also assumed that it was just a delivery. He'd been in the shower for most of their conversation.

"Hey, Larvie. Howsit, eh? You doing drop-in duty for the shut-ins here? Aren't you supposed to be saucing it up somewhere uptown?"

Larvie laughed. "Yeah, full-time now. Day-off. Mondays nobody eats out anyway. My sous-sous-saucier can handle it. I felt like doing a whole meal and you guys seemed like good victims for my over-cooked eggs."

Alex went over to work on the coffee maker. Leena rarely made a pot on workdays and Trula couldn't. Somehow, four and a half scoops were beyond her grasp.

Trula had left the room when he came in, so he had a moment alone with Larvie. He stopped beside the stove to speak quietly.

"Actually, glad that you dropped in. Not just for the food, which I expect will be great. Happy to see you for another reason."

He looked towards the hallway to be sure that Trula hadn't come back in. "We've been struggling a bit since Friday. Trula has been really down on herself. She probably still feels pretty dumb for taking the street shit, but that's only part of it. Yesterday, I tried to get an explanation for her strung-out act before the party, but what I got makes me worry even more about her."

Larvie was listening, while paying attention to rapid slicing of his onions and peppers, but now he stopped and turned his head to give Alex more focus. "What you got?"

Alex nodded. "Yeah, her explanation. It's pretty looney. Sorry to say."

He checked again that they were still alone before continuing.

"She thinks, er, believes, that she can switch realities. Or at least I think that's what she said."

Larvie tipped his head. "How's that? What's a reality?"

Alex was happy to get it off his chest. "She says that she was trying to repeat something that happened a week-ago. According to her, she took the same pills then and they acted like some sort of time-machine for her. Just like in the movies."

Larvie still didn't get it. "Time machine?"

Alex realized that it didn't make sense, but got to the supposed motive. "She apparently thought that the pills would let her see the winning Lotto7 number on the news, then go back a couple hours and buy a ticket. It's nuts. But she seems to believe it. I'm not sure what to do."

Larvie was sautéing vegetables as he whipped-up an egg mixture in a small bowl. The little tasks gave him time to consider what he was hearing. He wasn't any kind of counsellor, but he'd seen a lot of whacky behaviour from stressed-out people in his day. He had a thought, but phrased it as a question so he wouldn't appear to be offering advice.

"She's been pretty stressed lately, eh? Before you came along, I mean. Finances, this place, getting meds, all that shit is a lot for her, right?"

Alex nodded, saying, "It's not a problem anymore, but, yeah, it was a lot for her on her own. Maybe, she still thinks it is."

Larvie added some chopped ham and herbs to the pan, before taking it off the heat. He shrugged and added, "Not sure if it applies, but you know the stories you hear of cowards in battle shooting themselves in the foot to get out?"

Alex nodded again. "Yeah, guess so."

Larvie shook his head. "Doesn't usually happen that way. More like they're so fucking afraid and nervous, they get themselves injured, unconsciously. Something in their head lets go and they stop caring about their own well-being. They just have to get out of there. Heroes too, get shot running screaming right into the enemy's guns. Some aren't that brave, they just couldn't stay terrified any longer."

Alex frowned. Larvie hoped that he was making sense. He set aside the fillings and poured his whipped eggs into the hot pan.

He continued, "Anyway, similar thing happens off-duty as well. Stressed-out guys drive reckless, get stupid drunk, take big risks, hang out with bad sorts, take bad drugs, you name it. Docs tell us in group that the behaviour isn't the only problem that has to be addressed; it's also the underlying stress or pain that's taking us there."

He waited for Alex to nod understanding before continuing.

"Here's what I'm getting at. Maybe imagining something like that, that she had no way out, she gave herself permission to take the meds, even though she knew it was dangerous."

Alex nodded again. Trula had been under a lot of stress. He assumed that it was mostly over with Bob's job, his support and the new doc. But maybe that was just wishful thinking.

He asked, "You think that's it?"

Larvie shrugged again, while folding the hot ingredients and shaved hard cheese into the omelette.

He added, "Don't know—I'm no doc, just repeating what I've heard. But I'd say that if she believes something strongly, the worst thing might be to argue about it. If it helps her to say that she's a time-traveller, maybe just go with it for now. If she still says that six months from now, guess then it's time to visit a shrink."

Alex nodded again. It was good advice, even if a guess. They didn't need to fight. He could play along and see where it went.

Trula came back into the kitchen, still toweling out her hair. She had switched to jeans and a different tee-shirt but skipped a bra underneath. Her still-damp breasts moved up and down inside the shirt. Richard suffered another little shot of desire that he needed to tamp down. For now, she was Alex's girl. If that ever changed, well he'd see. He told himself that he wished them the best.

The omelette was marvelous, served on three mismatched plates. Toasted artisan bread and a side salad of sliced fruit and bright veggies complemented it. A perfectly-spiced fresh salsa topped it off. The three of them ate mostly in silence, each with a contradictory agenda running in their head.

After a bit, Richard said, "I have an ulterior motive for coming over. Is that a word?"

Both Trula and Alex looked puzzled.

He laughed. "Never been much of a fancy talker, but the white-hatted crowd I hang out with now tends to throw out ten-dollar words pretty regular. As long as it's about food, I listen carefully, then hit Google to see what the fuck they're talking about. The rest of it, I ignore."

Now Alex and Trula laughed. They tried to imagine him in a stove-pipe chef's hat.

He continued, "Anyway, as I was saying, I came here not just to feed you, but to ask you something."

Alex and Trula looked at each other. Alex asked, "Both of us, together?"

Richard nodded. "In particular, both of you together. What I want to ask is pretty tough. Pretty gruesome actually. I need a favour. The food is sort of a bribe. And there'll be lots more of that to come. In fact, any night I'm working at the restaurant, you just let me know you're coming and the meal is on me. Assuming, you like saucy stuff, that is."

Now Trula was interested. Richard had a way of working his way inside her defenses. He wasn't a guy who wondered about possibilities or hinted at his expectations, normally. He tended to get to the point. She guessed that she was probably alive because he just motored through a crowd of do-nothing bystanders and took charge.

She commented, "You seem, I don't know, a little hesitant to just blurt it out. Not like you. Why don't you just tell us?"

He grinned, then killed the smirk and took on a sober look. The request would be dead serious.

"Well, I have this opportunity. It's perfect, actually. Two weeks at one of the best chateaux in Quebec. They run a course off-season for invited chefs. Cordon Bleu master chefs and all that. It's the best sauce school on the continent and I got invited to attend."

Trula and Alex grinned. This wasn't gruesome at all. They looked to each other for some assurance of how to react, but then Alex just burst out.

"Larvie, that's amazing. You should definitely go. Do you need some kind of reference or endorsement? If cost is the problem, I can probably help with a loan there."

Richard shook his head. "No, that part's all looked after. My restaurant boss is splitting the program cost with me and I've got travel points from my sister for the trip. I'm good. That's not it."

Trula tipped her head. "What is it then?"

Richard was still a little sheepish. "Well, what I wanted to ask was if you would look after Lise for me while I'm away?"

Trula had no idea what he meant. Did he have a child that she didn't know about? She liked kids well enough but was no good with them and, well, she was a broke drug addict.

Alex was smiling. He knew. She didn't, so had to ask, "Who's Lise?"

Richard laughed. "She my best friend. She's a blond, stands about two-feet tall and eats nothing but a freeze-dried mix of fish parts and cruciferous vegetables. That, plus the odd liver treat."

Trula still didn't get it.

Richard let her off the hook. "She's my dog—Lise. Had her since the month I got back from Afghanistan. She was a present as a pup from my sister. Used to be our mess mascot at Borden. Now she's my loyal companion. At nine years old, she's getting on, but she's still a pup at heart."

He looked back and forth between them. "What I'm asking is if you can look after her for two weeks. I'll provide all the food, all her toys, shit bags, the lot. I was just kidding. She's no trouble at all. Once she knows you guys, she'll just park her butt between walks, which are slow and easy. Not that you can't boot it if you want. She's up for whatever."

Trula couldn't believe it. She had always wanted a dog when she was young. Even now, every one she passed on the street got her wishing. But, of course, the fact that she'd never stupidly taken one on was very good luck. It would be starving along with her. Probably be taken away by the authorities for mistreatment. But just sitting one for two weeks—well, that was perfect. Except, that she'd have to live to do it. It was one more roadblock to her plan to end it all.

Alex was already nodding ever so slightly, but wasn't saying anything until she responded. She guessed that they both wanted to hear her say she was up for it. Both physically and emotionally.

Trula was cautious. "I'd guess that I'd love to, if it's OK with Leena, which I'm sure it will be. I've seen her get all over the cute dogs in the neighbourhood. But, Alex, you're the real decider. Guess I might need to get out to work some. Maybe, you'd need to come over for some of the walks. We could make up a schedule. While we work things out, you know?"

He nodded, grinning. "Yeah, a schedule would be good. We could do that. While we work things out."

Richard was waiting for a final answer. "So, you will then?"

Trula lost her smile as she turned back to him. "Do you actually trust me, Richard?"

He nodded, "Of course. That's why I'm here. I wouldn't leave her with anyone else."

She smiled, then added, "But, just two days ago I did probably the most irresponsible thing I've ever done. I know that you care. Fuck, you saved me. This isn't some lame attempt at rehabilitation is it? You know, like she's a therapy dog, or something."

Richard shook his head. "She's my family. What else can I say? I would never let anything happen to her. You won't let anything happen to her."

Trula took a while responding, then asked, "What did you say her name was? Lisa?"

Richard grinned. "No, it's Lise. It's French-Canadian, although she's mostly Labrador. I named her after the sergeant who saved my life."

Both Alex and Trula looked puzzled. Trula repeated, "Saved your life?"

Richard nodded, "Yeah, long time ago, on combat deployment. She saved me and probably three or four other guys. Lise's namesake was Lise Dufoir, our squad leader in Afghanistan. She had the best intuition and ground sense of anybody. We would have followed her anywhere. Lots of times her calls on how we moved and on how we attacked saved our butts. But the kicker was on my very last patrol, just days before I came home."

He caught a couple of breaths and continued, "For absolutely no reason, she stopped us ten feet short of an IED, you know, like a landmine. We would have walked right into it. I mean, it was completely buried and the wind was blowing the sand. There was absolutely no way we would have seen it. But I guess she sensed a set-up. Like I said, if she said so, we moved. We skirted the area, took out a little nest of Taliban shits and got back to base safely. Bomb disposal guys went out and pulled a nasty fucker out of the exact path we would have been on. I got back here alive because of her. Other guys too."

He shook his head as he relived the near-miss. "Every couple years, the guys who can get together. We always raise a glass to her, wherever she is. Weird that, too. She just disappeared later. Probably went black ops with CSIS or something. She was the best. And my Lise is the best, too."

Trula looked at Alex, then back to Richard. "Well, I guess we'd better meet this lady, your Lise that is. If she'll have me, then I'll absolutely have her."

### Chapter 26 – R.02 – A New Week

Monday morning was back to work for everyone, except Trula and Alex. They hung out in bed, listening to a new round of message buzzes on their parked phones.

Leena left for work long before they were awake, maybe with news of two numbers in her pocket. She and Sam were a number. Her roommate's lottery number won twenty-two million. Trula hoped that the first event brought her enough joy that the second one could be shrugged-off. But the news would probably cost her the morning with the story needing to be told over and over.

Alex was needed at the family business. He knew that already. The business didn't know anything about Trula. There was no emergency and he wasn't going to create one by revealing that his current companion was now a multi-millionaire. In truth, that revelation would be only slightly interesting to the folks. Lots of his occasional companions had some notoriety. It came with their crowd. Wealth or fame wasn't important until that companion came inside the family circle. None had progressed so far. The family wouldn't jump the gun with assumptions about his relationship. This was just good manners.

Trula rolled over to grab him for a long hug in hope of starting the day with something positive. For unclear reasons, she woke with a feeling of dread. No matter Alex's late evening assurances, she wasn't confident that the lottery prize would come through.

Alex held her. He wanted the day to be better for her.

He said, "How about everything that Larvie, er, Richard told us, eh? Veteran's rarely talk about any of that shit. They see friends die; they kill others, who are human, bad guys or not. They're expected to shake it off and keep fighting. Then we bring them home and tell them to just live with those buried memories."

Trula didn't want to let any of the horror any farther into her imagination, which tended to embellish even trivial events.

She said, "Don't want to think about it."

He left it there. "Well, we don't need to think about that. But you are thinking about him, now. You might well have rescued him. You may be the first person he's ever told the truth to. It has to be a huge relief for him. I saw a long-extinguished light come back on. I think it's going to be OK for him, having you in his life. It's pretty amazing."

She smiled. Yeah, whatever else happened, that was a good thing. She just said, "Hope so."

Alex didn't know how much he should talk about the "reality" thing. He was becoming a conflicted believer, particularly with Trula's defiant admission of how she nailed her lottery win. But Larvie's belief in his reality-jumping sergeant felt different. If that was true, whatever the ability was, it wasn't immoral. Saving a whole lot of guys was heroic, particularly if it included saving Larvie a life of pain, even if in some other realm. And this was someone else doing what Trula said she could do. He was lost in wonder about how far this magical ability went? Was it possible that there was just two of them or was there a worldwide cadre of interventionists acting behind the scenes? His head hurt thinking about the implications.

He needed to get moving. "Let's get up. I'll make breakfast. Gourmet toast and gourmet peanut butter, with gourmet no-name instant coffee. Want it in bed or are we still recalling the last peanut butter incident in here?"

She finally laughed. "Yeah, but, if you remember, the toast was the problem—two nights of persistent, yet invisible crumbs. No toast in bed. Any time you want to spread peanut butter directly on me though, just let me know."

They were up.

Over coffee and permitted toast, at the table, Alex apologized for having to leave, without actually saying why. He needed to pass by his place to put on his board meeting clothes and to get picked up there by a driver. He felt a little like some low-budget super hero character operating in reverse. He put Clark Kent's gear on to confront the enemies: lease endings, uncollectable rents, increasing taxes, uncertain cashflows and the ever-mysterious depreciation. They were ruthless villains his brother held down in submission until Alex the Tooth appeared to administer the coup de gras with his forty-nine-cent pen.

Once Trula was alone, she caught up on her pill, exactly on schedule. She considered how different her dependency now felt. Yes, needing constant painkillers was a nuisance, but she now felt like she was ready for a step back down the ladder of increasing need that got her here. She could eliminate the shit in her life progressively or all at once. Handling sudden wealth would be stressful, but she could take her father up on some of his advice; she would listen carefully to Alex; she'd decide who to help and then she'd just do it. She would park the rest and forget about it. She wanted a normal life so much.

Trula now checked messages as they came in, returning calls from people she knew and ignoring the rest. Somehow a news service had her name and number. They wanted an interview. They got deleted. That shit could wait.

The next buzz led her to a message from their lottery corporation visitor: The Integrity Department Representative. The prim lady just asked for a call back. No details. Trula hoped that it was the all-clear and that they could talk about getting the ridiculous cheque presentation scheduled.

She got directly through to the number on her card.

"It's Trula Bausch, returning your call."

"Ah, yes, Ms Bausch. Let me just pull up your information." There was an on-hold pause filled with dead silence, then, "There we go. I have it now."

She continued, "Ms Bausch, do you have access to our website?"

"Please call me Trula. I guess so, it's still on my phone."

"That's good. Just go on handsfree and open the home page please."

Trula wasn't sure that her phone could do two things at once, but did as instructed and got the website open in her browser.

She didn't know why she was looking there. "What's this about?"

The Rep said, "Well, there are some details here that I need to review with you. If you'd rather come in, I can certainly get you a printed copy to review."

Trula wasn't that far away, but the only trip downtown she wanted to take was the one to pick up the cheque.

She responded, "No, that's OK. Just tell me where to look."

The Rep said, "Fine. Please click on the Lotteries tab at the top of the screen."

Trula needed to use the very tip of her finger, but managed to open the tab. "OK, got that."

"Now please slide down until you see the little icon that says: Claim a Prize."

Trula got that easily; it was a little bag of money. "OK."

"Good. Now, slide down to the very bottom of the page and click the footer that says Consumer Protection."

Trula didn't know why she was going through all these steps, but the Rep was very specific in what was wanted, so she went along. "OK."

"Now, please click on the Fraud Prevention button."

This one stopped her. "Uh, why would I need to go there?"

"Please just follow along. This will become clear in a moment."

"Uh, OK. I'm clicking."

The Rep now needed to be more specific. "Ms. Bausch, or Trula, please find the little asterisk right next to the section title that reads Integrity."

This one took some work. Trula had to expand the screen to see the small star just to the upper right of the word. "OK, I see that."

"Good. Please click on it."

It wasn't obviously a link, but when she touched it, a new page opened titled: Conditions for Award of Prizes.

Trula was lost. "OK, I see the page, but it's all so small. Am I supposed to skip through this and agree, like when registering for Facebook or something?"

The Rep answered, "No. You just need to scroll down and follow through to section 17, subsection six, paragraph four, under Terms of Play."

Trula had to expand the page again in order to follow down the numbered sections and sub-sections. She eventually got to sub-section six and thumbed down further to paragraph four.

All she saw was a confusing jumble of legalese that appeared ready to be used as a beating stick against any apparent claimant who chose to argue with the corporation.

The Rep waited patiently. "Do you have it open to the correct paragraph?"

Trula thought that she did. "Yes, I guess. Lot of BS text here. What am I supposed to be seeing?"

The Rep responded, "Please read paragraph four out loud."

Trula wished that she had a better explanation. But she was stuck, having come this far.

"Uh, let's see." She read, "Any use of pharmaceutical supplements, special innate abilities or any form of mystical power in order to establish foresight automatically voids any win. Players using these enhancements to their abilities are barred from playing for life."

Silence followed.

The Rep finally spoke. "You see, Trula, we know all about your type. We know that you didn't win by luck. You did something to learn the number ahead of time. You cheated. It voids your win."

Trula was stunned. They had her.

She finally responded, "You can't prove that."

The Rep had heard it all before. She replied, "We don't have to. We just refuse to pay and you're left needing to prove that you didn't cheat."

Trula wished Alex was there. She suspected that she wasn't going to win an argument over the phone.

She tried again, "You can't do that."

The Rep wasn't interested in debate. "We're the Lottery Corporation. We can do whatever we want. Why do you think that there's twenty pages of conditions and limitations?"

Trula made her case. "I have the winning ticket. That's all that matters. People already know that. Your machine already said that I'm the winner. You can't refuse to pay. I'll go public."

The Rep wasn't sympathetic. "Look, this isn't our first dance around the room. We get one of your type trying to cheat every couple of years. Don't know how you do it, but it must be hard enough that you can only pull it off once in a while."

Her type? Trula was getting pissed. "So, what if I did guess the number? You still need to pay. If I tell the world that your game is beatable, nobody will buy tickets."

The Rep made a sound that might have been a laugh. She eventually said, "We finally agree on something. That's why we have a solution for these cases, of fraud, I remind you. You should be going to jail, but we're prepared to offer a settlement, mostly to keep your methods a secret."

Trula hoped. "So, you'll give me the twenty-two million?"

"No. We won't do that."

"You have to pay out to somebody. You've already said that there was a winner."

The Rep may have laughed again. "No. The only tracking of payouts is deep in our system. We can just say that the award was never claimed."

Trula gasped and responded, "People will be upset. They'll support me."

Another laugh. "Do you know who won't be upset?"

Trula didn't. "What? Everyone will be."

"No, only you will be. All the others lost in that draw, remember? They're already on to the next one. None of them care about you."

Trula was grasping at straws. "We'll get a lawyer."

The Rep stifled another laugh, before responding, "Based on your credit score and work history, you can't afford a lawyer. Not a good one anyway. We've got a floor full of them. You'll be paying fees for years and will still only get what I'm prepared to offer you right now."

Trula was running out of energy. Whether or not they refused to pay, she wanted off the phone. She sighed and asked, "What's that?"

The Rep waited a moment, then said, "Ten percent."

Trula heard the offer but needed a moment to do the calculation. She asked, "Do you mean two million dollars?"

The Rep clarified, "Two point two, approximately."

Trula wasn't at all sure how to respond. It was still a lot of money, but it was a hell of a lot less than twenty-two million.

She responded. "And what do I have to do?"

The Rep was friendlier now. "It's nothing really. I'll just courier over an agreement. You and your boyfriend sign it, without showing anyone or discussing it beyond yourselves. Then bring it down with your ticket. We'll cut you a cheque on the spot."

Trula was still lost without Alex. She might have asked her father what to do, but now wouldn't be able to consult with him.

She wasn't sure. "I don't know. It's giving up a lot."

The Rep was conciliatory. "Seems that way at first, but, like I said, you were never going to get it anyway. This is a nice amount with no fuss and no muss. You can forget about us and just go enjoy your winnings."

Trula was worn out. She had to get off the phone. "OK, I guess. Send it over. I'll look at it."

The Rep was pleased. "That's fine. I'm glad that we can agree."

Just as Trula thought that she was about to disconnect, she heard a little throat-clearing cough and the Rep spoke up again.

"There is one thing. You should know it now to prevent, well, an accident."

Trula had a momentary flash of a gangland-style accident, where she got run down in the street. They couldn't really do that, could they?

She hesitated, then asked, "An accident?"

The Rep might have nodded on the other end of the phone. "Yes, you might accidently say the wrong thing to someone."

Trula felt some relief. "Oh, what's that?"

The Rep explained, "As we have an agreement, we won't be publicizing last Friday's draw any further. You've already told people that you won and they've seen the winning ticket. So, we won't change anything in that narrative. As far as anyone other than your boyfriend is concerned, you did win the twenty-two million. Our agreement will prevent you or him from ever saying anything else."

Trula was confused. "But I'll only have two million. How do I explain the missing twenty?"

The Rep was blunt again. "You don't. Later on, you can say that you gave it away, as an anonymous donor to multiple charities in small amounts. Something like that. Look up others. Lots of winners find ways to apparently blow most of their winnings. Some are just like you; they're fulfilling an agreement with us. Whatever you do, you cannot mention this conversation or the terms of the agreement to anyone. We would sue you. And you would definitely go to jail for breach of contract and fraud. I hope that we're clear."

Trula was stunned again. "Uh, sure, I guess."

The Rep was almost done. "Plus, you can never provide counsel or explain how you did it to anyone else. No friend. No relative. No other person. That clear?"

Trula now thought back to the earlier statement. "One of your type..."

She responded, "I understand."

The Rep was satisfied. "Very good then. It will all be in the agreement. Until we meet. Goodbye."

Click.

Trula was still staring at her blank phone.

"Fuck."

While she'd moved from the spot, done the dishes and even taken a walk around the block, staying well-clear of the Variety, by the time Alex was supposed to return mid-afternoon, Trula hadn't moved so much as an inch in her mental fixation on the telephone conversation. She replayed it in her head for the twentieth time.

You cheated. We caught you. You can't have your prize. But here's two million to weep into. Unsaid: don't weep too much, because you are now free to shed any guilt, fear, remorse, anger, desperation or ill-will that you now feel or have ever felt towards yourself or any other human being. Just keep one small secret, for life.

Was that a bad news story—she was out twenty million—or a good news story? Around the fifteenth time through she started to feel a weight lifting off her shoulders. She wouldn't be the world's benefactor; she'd be about twenty million short for that role, but she would be exactly what she dreamed of being—free to climb up out of her hole and to live without any serious worries. Plus, she wouldn't be a crook. She nodded while drying the same dish for about three minutes. She knew the feeling. Once she knew it a lot. It was happiness. A smile found its way out.

But how to break it to Alex? He'd be pissed that he was back pretty close to being poor again. Just buying a reasonable house, if that's what they chose to do, would chew up most of the money. She was committed to helping Richard. She owed people for their help when she was down. The money wouldn't last long. They'd still have to work. They'd still need to watch their spending. She'd have to find a way to end her expensive drug habit. It would be harder without all of the money. She hoped that he could handle the disappointment.

Alex came in around four in the afternoon. By that time, the courier had already shown up with the proposed agreement. She knew what was in the envelope, but chose to leave it closed until Alex was there. She thought that she might mention only that there was a problem, then let him read the agreement. She expected that it spelled out the situation pretty clearly.

He came over to kiss her, smelling faintly of cigar smoke, asking, "How was your day?"

She smiled. She was tempted to use the old good news—bad news trope, but didn't feel up to the drama.

She just said, "Well, I had an interesting conversation with our Integrity Department lady. She's OK'd a cheque for me, to be picked up at my leisure. Think that she's even OK with skipping the big cheque ceremony."

He grinned. "Well, that's great news! We should plan a trip somewhere. Next week. Far away. Private chateaux on the Riviera? Top of a castle on the Rhine? Little grass shack on a private island near Bali? I've always preferred Asia to Europe, but you'll have to be your own judge." He was telling the truth.

She grinned and shook her head. "Thinking an off-season condo in Collingwood may be more like it. You need to read the paper in that envelope."

Alex brought the eight-by-ten brown envelope on the kitchen table into focus. "What is it?"

Trula could tell him that, generally. "It's the lottery corp's terms for giving us the money. It's an agreement actually. We sign it, we get paid. I left it for you to read first. I'll just go hide in the bathroom while you do."

Alex laughed. "Oh, I get it. They want marketing rights to your body and soul for life. No, for eternity. First born only or all of our children to become indentured servants down there? We must tell everyone how our life is now perfect, thanks only to Lotto7. We need to dress the part at all times. Anything else?"

Trula tried to laugh along. "Yeah, pretty much all that and one more thing. I'll let you discover that on your own."

Alex got a kitchen knife out of the drawer, sliced the courier packaging and pulled out the multipage agreement. Trula could see a letter of some sort on top. She guessed that it would be oh-so-polite, with the really bad news and onerous terms buried inside the agreement. He sat down to read.

She headed to the bedroom. It was time for another pill.

It didn't take him long to get to the nasty parts.

She heard his exclamation. "What the fuck?" He was decoding the Integrity Department Rep's terms and conditions, now embedded in convoluted, poorly punctuated legal prose blocked into clauses that laid it out.

He figured out: She was admitting that she had violated conditions for receiving a prize. That violation was the use of an innate ability to cause some sort of mystical phenomenon that gave her prescient knowledge of the winning number combination ahead of time. They weren't fooled. Rather than putting her in jail they were imposing onerous conditions. She would receive just one-tenth of the money. He was equally guilty as her accomplice and therefore was bound by the same terms. They had to continue pretending that they won it all. No-one could know the truth.

Trula came back in as he flipped pages back and forth.

Alex looked up, shaking his head. "They caught you."

She nodded.

"You aren't the first, apparently."

She nodded.

"You don't get the prize, but are being paid off and threatened into silence."

She shrugged.

"They never want to see you anywhere near a lottery terminal again."

Trula answered. "That's about it. I'm so sorry."

Alex frowned. "For what?"

She sat down and took his hand. "We were going to be rich. Now we're just sort of middle of the pack; not rich at all by Toronto standards and definitely not headed for a life of leisure. I can't do much good, except for just a few people. We'll have to keep working. Bali is out, I guess. Aren't you disappointed?"

Alex laughed and said, "No."

It was his time to open up. He continued, "In fact, I'm relieved. Too much of a good thing is a problem. Yeah, you won't be able to change the world with massive donations, but really for you, for us, a couple mil is just about right, don't you think?"

She frowned. "Maybe you're right. But we have to pretend that we have twenty-two million. How the hell do we do that?"

Alex shrugged. "Doesn't have to be for long. Just until we come up with a believable story for where the rest went. Hey, rich guys lost twenty million on the stock market between three and four this afternoon. It's not hard. They'll get it back tomorrow. We can just say that we bet on the wrong horse and never recovered."

Trula knew that Alex would make it alright.

She nodded to the paper. "So, we should sign then?"

Alex turned up his hands. "We could get a lawyer and fight for the whole thing. This is mostly scare tactics. I bet that they'd actually just pay up when they saw the claim headed towards court."

Trula wasn't sure that she had the energy and she knew that they didn't have the money for good lawyers. The Rep had been right on that one.

She said, "How could we do that anyway? It would take years to resolve, probably. We'd be broke. I think that we should take the deal."

Alex's gut told him to fight it. He knew that they could afford whatever it would take to win. Time was really on their side. But the stress would be a killer. Trula would never get well with that kind of fight hanging over her. She was right.

He smiled. "You're right. Let's take the money and run. And we are still going to Bali."

They laughed and came together. So many little stresses were suddenly gone. The day felt like a new beginning.

Alex said. "Hey, let's eat late. I need a rest and you look like you could use some. Let's go to bed for a while."

Trula smiled and nodded. She came into his arms and they walked together towards the bedroom.

Alex said, "I have to tell you a bedtime story. It's about a father and two sons. One son works hard and the other one is a bum. It takes place in a magic land called Strip Mall Hollow. It goes like this..."

### Chapter 27 – Telling Time

Tuesday would turn out to be a very different day. For one thing, Monday's sunshine gave way to torrential rain and wind that was knocking down all the remaining leaves. They had to fight the sun trying to pry them out of bed on Monday; Tuesday's rain battering the bedroom window made them want to pull up covers and stay put.

"We should get up." Alex mumbled it, as his face was still buried in Trula's shoulder. An arm was around her waist. The rest of him was perfectly spooned against her back. They'd happily shed any disagreement nightwear of previous days in favour of an extra blanket over nothing but skin. The lingering intimacy suggested the potential for a compliance delay to his pronouncement.

Trula couldn't see any urgency. "I think that we should stay right here.'' She added, "Nothing out there needing our immediate involvement and, if I'm not mistaken, some part of you could use my attention right now."

Alex liked the idea, but cautioned, "Remember what happened yesterday when we doddled about in bed while the rest of the world was about their day." He left her some space to recall the panicky arousal of the day before. "Not sure that we want to repeat a half-dressed dash to deal with someone pounding on our front door."

Trula giggled, "So they find us not at home. No tragedy there. I'm willing to risk it."

Forty-five minutes later, Alex was showered and half-dressed, with Trula lingering under the shower head, revisiting some of the nice thoughts from yesterday in her head. She could see no reason to do anything in a rush now. Looking forward at a calm pace actually felt pretty good.

If Alex was paying better attention, he might have heard and felt the approach of the shiny black land-monster hunkered over its dual exhausts and growling up the street. Perhaps it was easy to dismiss initially, as just one more groan out of the old house on the windy day. The rumble increased in volume until it drowned out all other sounds and shook the ground. Its sudden absence, when the key was turned off, couldn't be ignored. Birds in the trees and squirrels in their burrows would give the silence an additional thirty seconds of immobile caution, just to be sure the perceived threat was over.

Ten seconds of quiet later, unrelenting pounding on the front door told Alex that some unforgiving creature really wanted his attention. Cursing his own foresight, he hurried his buttoning and tucking, slammed feet into battered loafers and headed to the front of the house.

Bob not so much entered the house as overwhelmed its threshold with about the same delicacy as a Herford bull mounting his third, more or less willing, cow of the day. He was in and the fun could start.

Bob glanced around. "Fuck, this place cleans up OK. You got a maid on retainer?"

He noticed Trula's absence. "So, she's a woman of leisure now? Soaking up every drop of my considerately allowed time-off to lay around in bed, then?"

Alex grinned. He knew that Bob needed to get out his gag-worthy slights and puns in order to establish his presence. Better just to let him run.

Bob continued on, never really expecting an answer to any question.

"Hear that your old man was in fine form yesterday. Trust that you kept your head down or avoided the grilling altogether. Just glad that Robert Bailor Moving is contributing well above the line. Nice quarter over quarter, improved margins, contained expenses, all that bullshit. Too bad we can't say the same for those wacko sex-shop-operator tenants of yours. Expect that you'll be replacing them all with wall-to-wall pot shops soon, eh? Considering senior management's expertise in the illicit drug trade."

Alex kept grinning; he risked one small interruption with a finger waggle. "No longer illicit, I remind you. Now we're licensed. Fine and upstanding members of the business community."

Bob guffawed. "Yeah and I'm up for Order of Canada. The day those towel-headed drug smugglers go fully legit, pigs'll get airborne. Just don't call me to move it all again in the dark of night. It's getting tiresome."

Alex thought that might be it, but he, like the birds and squirrels was leaving a margin of safety.

Bob had one last shot to fire. "And what's this I hear about you shacking up with some broad you hardly know? You sure that you want to park your pecker on the shelf so soon?"

Alex guessed that was it. He grinned, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

Trula came out to the kitchen after Bob and Alex had been gabbing for ten minutes. She wasn't sure how Bob would react to her, now that he had a couple of days to process things. She guessed he'd be happy that she was handling things well enough, but she didn't know about the rest. For some reason she couldn't explain, his opinion mattered a lot to her.

Bob pounced, but without much edge. "Well, there she is. The queen of the house. Maybe not this house, but some house to come, with this bum tagging along."

Last week, Trula might have gone toe-to-toe with him, but the intervening days proved that she needed him as one of her stabilizers. Together, she and Alex would need to figure out a way through things that brought them back to normalcy. Bob could be an anchor in that storm, as he'd never let them forget how close to the bottom they came. Plus, he was always good for a laugh.

She responded. "Nice to see you too, Bob." She went over and gave him a long hug and kiss on the cheek. He was strangely silent and may actually have taken on a blush as he tried to figure out what to do with his hands.

She let him go and added, "Seems to me one of us was pretty out of it last time we talked...about ten feet that way." She pointed to the front door.

Bob shook his head and shrugged. "If you say so. My memory is so short that yesterday is a blur. Anything happening before that is faded into the mists. Sunday morning, made more of a blur by your much-noticed absence from the crew, by the way. Those other dummies couldn't organize a two-band parade. Files were flying all over the place. Please never do that to me again."

Trula laughed. "Uh, sorry about that, but I was a little, uh, distracted. Didn't anyone remember how we got them upstairs a week ago?"

Bob grumbled, "Fuck no. But your leftover stickers saved the day. Goddamn good thing we left them in the truck. It was trial and error, with the blind leading the deaf, but we got there, eventually."

She smiled, "Well, maybe with a promotion, I don't know, maybe to Head Woman, I might consider coming out again."

Bob thought about it. "Think we might be able to swing that. Although definitely with a different title. If Rennie found out that I was using head and woman in the same sentence, I'd get punched again. And she can punch bloody hard. My shoulder is still aching from something I might have said in the last few days. 'Course, like I said, I have no memory of it."

They settled down with coffee from the fresh brewed pot Alex made from questionable grounds, found in a dusty can. Bob declined toast and peanut butter, even though it was the house speciality.

Bob asked Trula, apparently seriously, "So have you met the family yet?"

She shook her head. "Guess he wants to clean me up a bit more before taking that leap."

"Well, get ready for your screen test," Bob said, rolling his eyes. "They'll serve you tea and biscuits just to see if you know what to do with your little finger while holding those ridiculous china cups. I fuck it up entirely every time, which is why I'm just the grunt labourer on the bottom of the totem pool."

Trula looked over to Alex. "You didn't tell me that Bob's Moving is one of the businesses that your family owns."

Alex shrugged. "Not owns—just invests in. Bob's the boss." He added, "But we're looking to sell off some investments that give us the most trouble. So, can't say for how much longer."

Bob laughed, "Fat chance of that—I'm the only profitable enterprise in your sad conglomerations."

Trula just shook her head. She had been a pawn in their game all along and never knew it. Alex's suggestion that she was taking his place on the crew was obvious bullshit. She'd been selected and placed, under Bob's questionable tutelage.

He had to go, but Bob got back to his real reason for dropping in. He leaned over to Trula and steepled his hands, as if in prayer.

"So, we've got a job starting tomorrow. Kind of tricky. Movin a couple of departments around while they keep right on working at priming hand grenades or something. Don't drop anything, will be the rule. Less we want to all go out with a bang, ha-ha. No, seriously, I know that you don't need any more excitement in your life, but I'd really like to have come back to, uh, consult, on this one. What do you think?"

Trula had to think about it. She asked, "Do you think that the guys will be all right with me being there. I mean, considering everything that's gone on, and uh, who the actual big boss is?"

She stepped on Alex's toe under the table, eliciting a squawk.

Bob laughed. "Please. They all know the score. You're no different now than the co-worker and friend they worked with last week. No forgiveness required. They'll be OK for sure. Imagine their relief from my yelling at them, once you show them how to do things right the first time. And hey, maybe it will be a nice distraction for you while you, uh, figure things out."

Trula got it. Bob wasn't here on orders. She was wanted for real, for what she could do. She guessed that she had actually proved herself. It reminded her how far she'd actually come.

She nodded. "OK, I guess. But I'll need to be off Friday morning. I promised Richard that I'd come over to his place. To learn more about his Lise. I can't break a promise."

Bob got up and did his happy dance, or so it appeared. He said, "Sure, sure. Whatever you need." He shook his head, winking at Alex. "Leave it to bloody Larvie to distract my best worker." Then, perhaps remembering their ruse, said, "Uh, not counting you Alan, of course."

With that, Bob was out the door. A few seconds later his rig roared to life. Its incredible noise dopplered away until he was around the corner of the block.

Trula wasn't sure how life so easily fell into place. Her expectations for a lasting disruption might still be met. Planning to be normal wasn't the same as being normal, day after day, week after week and month after month. She'd barely moved half a month forward since the days when she really had nothing. Her time with Alex was less than that. Bob and the gang even less. She considered that Richard and even Sam might now become her good friends. As she now knew them, they'd only been around for brief moments in her life.

She looked across at Alex and smiled. Nothing really needed to be said. They came this far through the maze of uncertain turns and roadblocks that life presented. He knew about and accepted her weirdness. The mystery ability was now in her past, as she was never going down the road of reality jumping again; but strangeness still defined her in many ways. Her struggle with pain was far from over. As in some burned-over forest, green growth would poke up and, in time, replace the destroyed trees. But for a long time, her psyche would be starkly black and gray.

Her dependency could flair up at any time. It only needed a slight breeze in the form of a surprise letdown or unmanageable stress. She was perhaps wiser, but no less vulnerable now than she was two weeks ago when she ran to the street for illicit pills that could have killed her. Sitting there, smiling at Alex and getting his smile back, she couldn't imagine that she might fall that far again. But she wasn't fooled. Climbing ever steeper hills would be hard—falling back down again was all too easy.

She was still digesting what Alex told her about his family; the fact that he was the incognito second-in command of a good-sized company and that his father and brother were both unabashedly wealthy.

"I guess I am too," he said, later last night, "but it's only on paper."

The admission seemed to be embarrassing, somewhat akin to admitting to a dread disease or to having murdered his last roommate.

He said, "You deserved to know. I didn't intend to hide it, but I figured maybe we could get to know and like each other more honestly, without the overhang of my family."

Trula tipped her head, "Mighta kinda made some of the drama of the last couple days a little easier to handle, me knowing that we weren't really destitute. Do ya think?"

Alex nodded agreement, but didn't apologize. "Money has a way of fucking things up. Seems like it should be the opposite, but, believe me, I've seen my share of miserable rich people."

Trula was still uncertain about his reluctance to celebrate his success. "Guess we can test out that theory. Maybe we're different people."

He said, "Sure. We are. But I'd give it all up in a minute if I thought bumming along was the key to us surviving. Looking around, he added, "For instance, I sorta like the tired paint, cracked walls and saggy floors of this place."

Trula grinned. She did too. Maybe it could still be their hideout.

As they were straightening up the bedroom, she stopped to stare into her closet.

"Guess one thing I'll need to get is a Lois Lane outfit to go with your mild-mannered reporter get-up. Nothing in here really says Rosedale evenings on the terrace."

Alex laughed. "Who said anything about dressing up? I will definitely spare you the board meetings downtown. At the house, we all dress in stuff that might have come from the bargain bin at the re-use store. You might have to actually dress down a bit."

She eyed him suspiciously. "You're kidding, right?"

He shook his head. "Nope, absolute truth."

He had little credibility. She'd been fooled once—it wouldn't happen again. Mother, sister, maid. Didn't matter who. One of them was going to tell her what to wear, via a friendly phone inquiry, long before she made her debut.

Tuesday was moving along. They were sitting at the table with no particular reason or need to do anything. She glanced at the clock on the stove and read 11:45. It dawned on her—that was eleven hours and forty-five minutes since midnight. Fifteen minutes to go until noon, when the digits would start again. Noon was halfway through the day. There were many hours until they slept again. She couldn't believe it—she could tell time!

She sat up straight and tried to feel the earth moving. She should have felt waves of dark matter flowing around her. There was nothing. If asked, she'd be unable to tell anyone how far they had travelled in the last hour.

For a panicky moment, she wondered if the world had actually stopped moving. If the earth was frozen in space, maybe the progressing digits on the clock were just fooling her, again. But no, she now felt that time was indeed passing. The earth must still be hurtling through space; the realities were spinning out without her involvement. She would need some time to figure this out. Maybe it was time for her to move on, too. Maybe, just possibly, it was her time.

About the Author

Ross Peacock is a resident of Haliburton, Ontario, Canada.

His other works include the Draumrs series. (Books One and Two, 2017). Draumrs are today's descendants of the ancient dreamweaver families. Fun-loving, sexy and super-intelligent, they join our dreams with amazing fantasies that they create. Book Three is in development for publication late in 2020

Also look for Crimes at the Moment of Death (2019), a contemporary urban thriller that pits the smarts of a Bay Street criminal against the menace of a suburban street gang, with the future of a vulnerable young family in the balance.

Check out his website for more information: www.rosspeacock.com

