“Cool. I told you to get some running shoes and hang with me. I guarantee no pill can touch these endorphins.”

“I’ll take you up on that, as soon as I master walking.”

“Word up,” he says.

“Word up,” I say back.

As soon as he leaves, I put on a sweatsuit I’ve always wanted to wear, stop by Forward Motion Sports and buy a good pair of running shoes, and head to Lafayette, where I manage to walk around that reservoir in less than forty minutes. I even perspired. It felt good.

But. I spoke too soon. All of a sudden I felt hot. And then I started sneezing and then I was freezing. I guess this is what withdrawal feels like.

I go straight home and get under the covers and wake myself up snoring. It’s been fourteen whole hours since I had a pill. I almost want to congratulate myself, but, then, I’m the one who did this to myself in the first place, so it doesn’t seem practical or logical to even celebrate on a mental level.

I sleep for three whole hours, and when I get up, even though I’m excited about my dinner date with Randall, my body has its own agenda. It’s screaming for just one pill. I’m feeling agitated, jumpy, and I’m surprised when I find myself ransacking all my desk drawers, old purses, jewelry boxes, sunglass cases, every suit and coat pocket, even the ashtray in my car, where I usually keep two dollars for the bridge toll—all the places I’ve hidden pills from myself in the past, in hopes of finding them one day by accident, or like now, when all I need is one or two. The Smart Side of Me says, “You’re being stupid again! You’re acting like these things are some kind of fucking reward or hidden treasure. You better be glad nobody can see you doing this.”

I’m embarrassed, and it feels like I’m being watched. But this is so hard, pretending I don’t want one when I do, pretending I’m not craving one when I am. I mean, I know one pill isn’t going to change anything. They never do. Everything is exactly the same before I take one as it is after it takes effect. I wish I understood why they make me feel like they’re compensation for my good behavior, for not falling apart, for functioning well, being able to connect the dots without anybody’s help, for running my world in what looks to be effortless fashion when in fact it often weighs a ton. But, then again, that’s part of the game, too, making it look easy when it really isn’t.

A pill is a very small prize for what I do. In fact, the Smart Side of Me knows all this shit but the Dumb Side seems to have the most power. After exhausting my search, and I don’t find a single pill, I just say fuck it and take my shower. When I open my bra-and-panty drawer and start moving them around to see if I can find a match—whamo!—a plastic sandwich bag with about twenty pills in it is stuck in the back corner.