1Here's Chapter Five! Thanks for all those readers who are bearing with me here. I really appreciate it. This chapter is my first real free-handed one, so you've gotta tell me what you think. I hope you enjoy!

An hour or so later, I pulled into an old dirt driveway. It snaked up steep, stopping in front of a tattered one-story house. The area itself was only slightly sketchy, but the house made it look a little worse. The windows were too dark to see anything through, and weeds lined the pitiful porch where a garden should be.

I cut the engine and sat there, just staring at the sad house. Had I not gotten back on the right track, I knew this is the kind of place I'd be sporting in the future...If I wasn't locked up, that is. Sometimes, I felt like my mom sacrificed herself to keep me from going down the wrong road. I hated thinking that, despite the fact that it had worked. With that thought in my mind, guilt followed me like a lovesick puppy.

Guilt seemed to seep into everyone's lives, though. Bert felt it was his fault because he figured he should have been stronger for her. He never said this aloud, but I knew him too well to think anything else. He fought for composure and independence now more than anything.

I sighed, not even bothering to battle the morose feeling developing in the pit of my stomach, and got out of the car. The dirt crunched under my shoes as I turned to slam the door shut. The ripped screen door opened just as I was stepping around my truck, and Mark trudged down the steps, a beer in one hand.

"Wes," he said in greeting, coming to meet me in the middle of the driveway.

"Hey, man," I replied, looking him over. He had an oil-stained wife beater on, and hadn't shaved for a week, give or take. I grinned. "You clean up nicely."

He laughed, punching me lightly in the arm. "Screw you, man," he said, turning around and heading towards the garage. I caught up to him in a few paces. "You want a beer?"

I shook my head. "Pass."

"Good," he said. "'Cause I think I drank my last case this morning."

My eyebrows raised, but I didn't say anything in response. I honestly couldn't tell if he was joking or not, and that depressed me.

Mark and I had been friends since junior high. We started off as good kids, boasting good grades and decent friends. A little after we got situated in high school, Mark fell in with the wrong crowd, and he pulled me in with him. It started out with the "innocent" bad things: cigarettes and a little drinking here and there. But those bad things turned on us like one big rabid dog, and, before we knew it, we were drinking every night and passing out, doing all kings of drugs, and pulling pranks that earned some of the guys a few nights in jail. Mark and I were good kids together, until we went bad together. Only difference was that I pulled myself out.

Or my mom did, at least.

"I scraped another box together, if you want to take a look at it," he said, pulling open the garage door all the way once we reached it. He took another swig of his beer as he scanned the mess that was his garage. A couch and a lawn chair were angled around cardboard box that acted as a coffee table, and the grotesquely sweet smell of pot mingled with the stinging scent of alcohol, creating a bitter combination that burned my nose.

"Ah, there they are." I followed Mark to the back left corner, where he pulled a box off of a shelf and handed it to me. I set it on the coffee table and started looking through it.

"Where do you get this stuff?" I asked, rubbing my palm against a silver-plated piece of metal. "Some of it's too nice to scrounge up from the landfill." I stole a glance at him, wondering if he was still stealing.

Mark snorted "You'd be surprised," he said. "There are a lot of dumb people who'll throw out the nicest shit."

I nodded, pulling my hands out of the dusty box. "I'll take this one." He nodded wordlessly and handed me a second, smaller box.

"I don't see you much anymore, Wes," Mark said from behind me.

"Maybe because you moved so far away."

He snorted again. "You know what I mean," he huffed. "We used to be best buds, you know?"

I turned to face him. "I know," I said, looking at my old friend. "But..." I took a breath and exhaled, wondering how to put it. "I just...I can't go back to where I was, Mark. I really was out of it before my mom died."

He nodded. "I get it, man. We just had a lot of fun together, you know?"

I didn't respond, but pulled out my wallet and started thumbing out some bills. "I'll take the second box, too."

He smiled and took my offered cash. "You're my best customer."

"I'm your only customer," I replied with a laugh, picking up the heavier box. Mark chuckled, set his beer down, and grabbed the smaller one, and together we headed back to my truck to load them into the bed.

"So come back again soon," Mark said, shutting the truck bed. "I'd hate to think you were just coming up here for business."

I gave him a look. "You think I drive an hour up here just for a few boxes of junk?"

He grinned. "True."

"I'd stay," I began, opening the door. "But Delia needs me at a catering job tonight."

"'S cool," Mark drawled. "I gotta party tonight anyway."

He shut my door, and I looked at him through the open window. "Just be careful, 'kay?"

He rolled his eyes. "Alright, Mom. I'll be home by curfew."

I laughed and shook my head, jamming the keys into the ignition. "You're such a jerk sometimes," I joked.

He smirked, backing away from the truck. "I am," he agreed. "I'll see you sometime."

"Bye, Mark," I said, throwing the truck into reverse.

I pulled out of the driveway, watching Mark disappear behind the hill. As soon as I got off the dirt and back onto the road-the house out of sight- the weighted feeling in the pit of my stomach evaporated immediately, and I let out a sigh of what felt like relief.