When I wake up I don't know where I am. Like, at all. This isn't the first time this has happened, but I still get that sick feeling in my stomach because usually when it happens it means I'm nowhere good. Usually the not knowing is better. So I keep my eyes closed for a bit, just kinda chillin' out in that disorientation. I'm in a bed at least. That's a step up from the gutter or the ditch or some rando's front lawn with dogshit on my face. My brain starts to boot up and I start remembering some stuff. I guess my senses are kicking in, too, and it gets kinda confusing because, like, the last thing I really remember was going to the Shooting Gallery and trying to get as much junk into my arm as I possibly could. Like, beyond the point of caring if I OD'd. Maybe I wanted to. But I'm not awake enough to think about shit like that, yet. So, yeah, like I was saying, my last memory is being in that fucking shithole squat, but there's a clean-laundry smell in my nose. It smells clean in here. It sure as shit wasn't clean at the Gallery. And it wasn't clean at my apartment. Jane and I had had different priorities lately and cleaning house wasn't one of them …

Jane.

And there it is. It hurts, man. It hurts so bad. Like there's a wrecking ball behind my eyes and it just swings and crashes, swings and crashes. Jane's dead and I went to get high because I couldn't fuckin' deal. So why am I not still there? Or am I dead, too? Does the afterlife smell like Tide laundry detergent? I open my eyes, slowly, and reach an arm over to see if anyone else is in the bed with me (dude, you never know … after a blackout you have to be prepared for anything). I sit up and I'm alone in a room and then I remember what happened. Well, mostly. It's hazy. But I remember Mr. White coming and getting me. And Mike was there, too. And we came here. And Mr. White took me into the bathroom and … oh, shit, man … he totally saw my junk. Like, naked, yo. Gross.

The thought really kinda skeeves me out, and makes me feel kind of vulnerable to know I was so messed up that I let another dude take my clothes off and bathe me, but in the end it's okay. I mean, Mr. White might be a lot of things, but a raging perv ain't one of them. If anything he was just kinda being dad-like. Which is weird, but I guess that's good. I guess that means he actually gives a shit about me? This thought makes the thought of Jane being gone a little bit easier to bear. Knowing that there's one person out there who cares whether I live or die.

I look down, praying that I'm not still naked and naw, I've got some clothes on. A T-shirt and shorts I don't recognize. But they're clean, so whatever. Wonder where my own clothes are.

My head hurts and I put it into my hands. I do that a lot. It's like a comfort thing, I guess. My mom said I've been doing it since I was a kid. Probably started when I didn't want people to see when I was upset or about to cry. Mom said my emotions have always run high and I wear my heart on my sleeve, whatever that means. Well, I think I know what it means. It means I was destined to hurt a lot. I mean, it's pretty much par for the course so far, right?

Dad said I needed to toughen up. I think he meant through team sports and Boy Scouts and shit. I had something else in mind. I had started making money on the streets by then and I bought new clothes and changed the way I talked and the way I walked and the music I listened to. Cap'n Cook was born, yo. He was my way out.

At least it was. And then I met Mr. White and everything changed. I thought I was pretty bad-ass before then. I thought I'd seen some stuff. Turns out I'd seen nothing. There was a whole world of shit waiting for me after that day Mr. White showed up in my driveway.

In high school, they think they can educate you out of doing drugs. They talk about "gateway drugs." Y'know, like, you smoke a little weed, no biggie, and by the end of the week you're turning tricks for coke. Hilarious. Hell, I was blazin' up fatties by the time I was twelve and tweakin' by the time I was in Mr. White's class, so, uh, yeah, kinda too late with that message, right? Not that I woulda listened, anyway. When I was a kid, I was never any good at the "good" stuff. Y'know, the stuff that makes parents proud and shit. I sucked at school and I sucked at sports and I sucked at making friends because I wasn't good at sports and I was just this annoying little twerp no one wanted around. All I wanted to do was play video games and read comic books and draw the stuff I saw in comic books. But that didn't fly with my folks, yo. Naw. Said I was wasting my time with my "silly pictures" and I should be working on my grades and getting into Little League. All white-picket-fence and American apple pie and shit. They bought into the dream and I wasn't exactly delivering in the son department. I guess maybe that's why Jake is such a goddamned overachiever. I think about that lot. Wondering if I put that on him by being such a loser.

So, like, what do you do in that situation? Damned if I know the right answer, but I can tell you what I did. I started lying. And it was easy. It was so easy it kinda scared me. I started by lying about a test score. In reality I'd spent the whole night reading comic books instead of studying and I totally flunked, but I decided to tell my parents that I got a B+. Just to see what happened. Kind of expecting them to call bullshit or see my graded test to prove it. But they didn't. They just looked … relieved. Like I was "fixed" and they didn't have to worry so much. I wasn't sure how I felt about that at the time. I mean, I was kinda glad they weren't on my case for once, but this other part of me was kinda sad. Like, disappointed that they'd rather hear the lie than deal with the truth.

So I lied more. I lied about my grades. I learned how to alter my report cards (the ones I allowed to reach my parents). I lied about joining the soccer team and conveniently every home game fell on a day when my parents were busy or, oops, I gave them the wrong date and time to show up to watch their little star play. Oh, that Jesse, so scatterbrained, but gee, we're glad that he's not totally fucking up anymore.

I started spending more time out of the house because, like, I had all these fake soccer practices and study groups I was a part of, right? So, I just started hanging out. And that's when I met Badger and Skinny Pete. And they were cool to me, y'know? Badger liked TV and comic books and Skinny Pete was chill about fuckin' everything, and they thought my drawings were dope and I could just, like, be myself. And they introduced me to Combo and bunch of other dudes and they were all getting high all the time and it looked like fun, so I went along.

I was already a superstar at lying, and I realized that stealing is just another form of lying. I started lifting small bills from my mom's purse or digging into my brother's piggy bank. No one noticed at first and that gave me confidence. Confidence to start lifting from stores and breaking into places. And if I got caught, I just hustled and lied my way out of it. So, let's recap, okay? Good liar? Check. Good thief? Check. There's a trade that's designed for people like me, and that's the drug trade. You gotta be confident — get that fuckin' swagger, yo; you gotta be quick on your feet, ready to bullshit your way out of anything; you gotta be a salesman — people wanna get high, but you gotta convince them that your shit is the bomb and they should buy from you. Hence the Chili P, yo. I don't care what Mr. White says, that shit wasn't so bad.

So when people tell me that I'm stupid and no-good and I have no skills … they can go fuck themselves. I got skills! Just not the kind that regular people are going for. I mean, like, if you designed an SAT test for shit like that, I'd be going to fucking Harvard to get my Ph.D. in Meth Distribution. I'd like to see fuckin' Jimmy Henderson — J.P. Wynne's golden boy and the guy who liked to kick my ass the most — take that test. Yeah. I'd have him sweeping the floors of my lab. Fuck.

Of course, eventually my lies started catching up with me and my parents started catching on and it all kind of went to shit at home after that. They yelled a lot and they asked me why I was lying, but they never really asked. Do you know what I mean? It's like when Mr. White gets super pissed at me and he asks what the hell is wrong with me. He's not really asking. He doesn't want a fucking answer. He just wants to remind me that I'm a moron. Or the last time I saw my mom, when they took the house away. She slapped me across the face and asked me why I was the way I was. And I just wanted to scream at her and ask her why she never asked that question sooner. Like, really asked it! I was just a kid, for god's sake. Why didn't they notice I was lying all the time and, like, living this double life, and figure out why I was doing it? Isn't that what parents are supposed to do? Fix shit for you when you don't know the right way yourself?

But I really hate it when people are pussies and whine about how their parents ruined their lives. Like they had nothing to do with it. I made my choices, man. But I'm having some trouble living with them lately.

When I was doing the petty theft crap, I never mugged anyone or held anyone up. I never shot no one. Naw. I never wanted to hurt anyone. And I never did.

Until I met Mr. White. I think he might be my "gateway drug," y'know? Sometimes I think about the shit I've seen and done and been through since I hooked up with him and it makes my head spin. I mean, he totally blackmailed me into it, but then it was like, that thing that happens to people who are kidnapped … what do they call it … Stockholm Syndrome? Yeah, like that. And I was totally on board. The money, man. I won't lie. It was the money. And Mr. White, in spite of the fact that he was the most white-bread dude to ever wear a pair of tighty-whities, always convinced me that he somehow knew what he was doing. That he had a plan and if I just shut my mouth and went along with it, that everything would work out.

But has it? I wonder. Since I met him, I've shot a dude. I've been nearly beaten to death — twice. I've had a gun held to my head. I've bashed someone's head with a rock. I've tampered with crime scenes. I've stolen chemicals. For fuck's sake, Mr. White had me dissolving goddamn corpses in my house in the first week I knew him! I know there's more, but I don't wanna think about it. But then again, it's easier than thinking about Jane, so I dunno.

Jane. Maybe Mr. White was the reason I lost my house, but if I hadn't lost my house I wouldn't have met her. But if I hadn't met her, she'd probably still be alive. Probably still sober, too. So, by that fucked logic, it's like Mr. White killed her. Even though I know he didn't. Obviously. And by that same logic, I wish I'd never met Jane. Not for my sake, but for hers.

And what happens after this? Rehab. And then what? Probably back to cooking. Yeah, stick the crankhead junkie into a lab with pounds of product. Good plan. But this is all I know now, man. And, despite all the shit, I think I'm pretty good at it. Maybe I'm not as smart as Mr. White, but I know things he doesn't. I know he needs me. But trouble seems to follow us like flies to a pile of shit. I know Mr. White will do his thing where he'll look at me — he'll totally do the eye-thing — and he'll say a bunch of stuff and I'll just start nodding my head like his puppet. He's so smart. So much smarter than me. Sometimes I'm scared I don't know how think for myself anymore. I'm not a murderer. Not yet. I'd like to think there are still lines I won't cross. But I wonder if Mr. White will somehow convince me that it's necessary to cross them in order to survive.

I shake my head because I'm thinking too damn much and I'm getting all jittery inside. I'm remembering more now. That Mr. White has my phone and I'm locked in this place until he comes to get me. Whenever that is.

Fuck, I can't sit here anymore. When I was on the nod I felt like I could sleep forever. I remember Mr. White picking me up like I was a little kid. I kinda remember that as a kid. My dad carrying me around like that. Or on his back or up on his shoulders. And then one day I tried to climb up on him and he said I was too big and I'd hurt his back if he tried to carry me and that was that. But Mr. White? Picked me up like it was nothin'. Then again, I know I've dropped weight since Jane and I started using together. And I've always been skinny to begin with.

This thought makes me think of food and I get up and go into the kitchen to see if there is any. I'm not really hungry, though. I just kind of like knowing it's there. Or sometimes just, like, the feel of it. Hence the Funyons, right? They're crunchy and they taste cool and I can kind of eat them like I breathe air. Man, I could so snarf a bag of Funyons right now.

But there's something else I want more. I'm starting to feel the itch a little. I'm trying to remember if I finished my stash before I nodded off or not. Dammit, where the fuck are my clothes? I wonder if that fucker took them so I'd be less inclined to book it out of here. He should know that if I want out of somewhere, I'll go fuckin' naked if I have to. Just like if I want in somewhere, I'll find a way. You have to be resourceful in this kind of lifestyle. I wanna stay. I think really do. But fuck, it's eating away at me — I gotta find my hoodie to check for my stash. Where the fuck is it?

I'm obsessively pacing the apartment and then I remember that Mr. White made a big deal about how bad I smelled and he made me take that bath and so my clothes were probably pretty rank, sooooo …

Shit.

In the washing machine. But my wallet and keys and cigarettes are on the counter. So I guess he emptied out my pockets. Either he confiscated my shit or I shot it all. Doesn't really matter, either way. All it means is that I got a long, fuckin' hard day ahead of me. All I wanted was a little taste to chill me out until I got to detox proper. Fuck.

It occurs to me to put my clothes in the dryer so I won't have to make the trip in … whatever this is. Who brought me clothes? Mr. White? I can't figure that guy out most of the time. He's the last person I should trust, but for some reason I trust him the most. Is that fucked or what? But, y'know, he's consistent, yo. He rides my ass and gives me a hard time, but when the chips are down, he comes through. That's more than I can say for most people I know. And he's the best meth cook I've ever met. Like, ever.

I get a glass of water and wander into the living room area. There's a TV so I turn it on because I need the distraction. I need to stop thinking so much. I'm sure Mr. White would agree with me. I'm feeling agitated and I start scratching the palms of my hands with my fingernails, gritting my teeth. I need something, man. I need a hit. Or just to smoke a bowl. I need Jane. I need her to look at me the way she used to. Like I'm the biggest dork in the universe, but she loves me anyway. The way she smelled and the way she kissed me. Jane, beautiful Jane. My Jane. Gone. All gone.

I feel wetness on my face and I realize I'm crying again. There are deep red crescent-moon shapes on my hands where my nails were digging in. I should be freaked out about rehab, but I'm not. I mean, detoxing and going through withdrawal is gonna suck hard, but I'm just so fuckin' tired. Maybe that's why I let Mr. White boss me around — because sometimes it's good not to have to make the decisions. And those times when we're stuck in some crazy situation and Mr. White just, like, MacGyvers us out of there with some plan and he blows my mind. And now I'll go check in and they'll tell me what do. When to sleep, when to eat, when to shit. And I'll let them because I don't want to think about that stuff right now. I don't want to think about anything.

I stare at the TV, but I don't really know what I'm watching. It's not registering. The dryer beeps when it's done and I go get my clothes out and put them on. They're warm and it feels comforting. Like being hugged. I think about how Mr. White hugged me. Well, more like I was clinging to him, but he let me. And he hugged me back. Let me cry and snot all over his shirt and sometimes I don't understand why he is the way he is and why I keep sticking with him, but I just do. It's like he needs me. And maybe I kinda like that. No one's ever really needed me before. For anything. I mean, hell, Jane loved me, but she didn't really need me.

I'm still mulling this over when I hear a key in the lock and I stand up, watching the door. Mr. White is standing there.

"You're up," he says gruffly, a little surprised.

"Yeah," I reply. "Been up awhile."

He nods. "I see you found your clothes."

"Yeah. Uh, thanks for that, by the way." Fuck, it's almost impossible to look him in the eye. I'm not good at this stuff and it's really awkward. "Thanks for … all that stuff yesterday."

Mr. White looks awkward, too, but he nods again and steps forward, patting my shoulder a little bit. "Don't mention it."

I think he means that literally. The aroma of food clings a bit to his clothes. Smells like breakfast. A breakfast his wife probably made for him. Or maybe he did. I remember that one time, after that brutal night where I slept in the RV, covered in shit and blue gunk, and Mr. White finally agreed to front me some cash. And he let me into his house. Like … his worlds colliding, I guess. And then he asked if I wanted some breakfast. Every time I think I got that dude's number, he goes and does something unexpected like that. I was starving and I nodded and then he got out some eggs and shit and made us breakfast and we sat at his table and ate it together. It was weird.

Anything, the smell reminds me of all that. Also reminds me that I haven't eaten in forever. My stomach growls loud enough for Mr. White to notice and he raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Haven't eaten in a while."

Mr. White points his thumb over his shoulder. "There's breakfast in the car. I stopped on the way over."

You'd think he'd just given me a car or something, but I want to fuckin' hug him in that moment. But I don't. I'm sure my face lit up, but I try to play it down. "Cool, thanks."

"You ready to do?"

"Yeah, just a sec." I go back into the kitchen and grab my wallet, keys and smokes. Mr. White picks up this overnight bag from the bedroom that I hadn't noticed before. Guess that's where my other clothes came from.

I walk out the door ahead of Mr. White and he locks up behind us. I get in the car and there are two bags of food on the passenger seat. I get in and put them on my lap and Mr. White starts the car and off we go. I don't know how things are going to go. I've never tried living sober before. I mean, like, not using anything … ever. I seriously doubt I can do it, but Mr. White doesn't have to know that. I guess I gotta try, right?

Even though I don't always know what I'm trying for. Getting healthy for what reason? At this point the only person who benefits from it other than myself is Mr. White. I look at him from the corner of my eye as we head out of town. Maybe he's doing this for himself more than for me, but I'll just add that to the list of shit I don't want to think about. Mr. White and I are gonna have breakfast and I'll try not to puke it all up when I get junk-sick.

Mr. White holds out his hand. I give him one of the bags and we don't really say anything to each other for the rest of the drive. I think yesterday we did enough talking to last a long time.