I brought the orange bucket to the cabin door, stepped up, and went inside. The room was dark and warm and smelled of Pine-Sol, and I wondered how Daryl—the Daryl out there on the hard ground—kept the place so clean. Maybe he could manage the place come winter. A fire burned in the woodstove. The bed was made neatly and the wooden counters were sleek, the clean dishes stacked in the dish rack, the unclean ones in the sink covered with the customary red cloth to tell the spirits to stay away, that there was no food for offering. I moved the cloth and dry-heaved once and then twice over the half-full sink. I wiped my mouth with the cloth and draped it back over the dishes.

On the small wooden table by the back wall, a cribbage board was set up, the middle of a game paused. The blue pegs were winning against the red, two hands of cards lying on opposite sides of the table. I imagined Daryl playing against himself in that dark, warm cabin.

Next to the cribbage game were what I thought I’d seen: pill bottles. Same ones Daryl always kept out and about. Heavy stuff like lithium. I didn’t want that, didn’t need that. My therapist years back cut me off everything when I got on methadone. “Can’t mix this, can’t mix that”—bullshit. I picked up each bottle and read the white labels, searching for his benzos.

Then I found some. A bottle of Klonopin. No wonder Daryl was a wreck—the prescription was full, hadn’t been touched.

Fellis honked.

I put the pills in my pocket.

Fellis honked again. I stepped down on the orange bucket and glanced at Daryl. He had rolled over. I got in the truck. Fellis drove in reverse all the way down the dirt road and looked behind him the entire time while I faced forward shaking the bottle of pills in my hand and watching the puffs of smoke coil out of the chimney and up into the sky. Daryl probably didn’t even remember the code anyway.

. . .

“Fuck” was the first word Fellis said. It was quarter to twelve, and we were on the main road heading for the highway.

“We’ll make it,” I said. “We have an hour before it closes.”

I kicked the blower motor.

“I ain’t worried about the methadone clinic,” he said.

Fellis pulled the truck over on the side of the road. His hands shook.

“Fuck!” He punched the steering wheel.

“Forget the code,” I said. “It’s a stupid idea anyway.”

“We’re not forgetting it,” Fellis said.

I opened the bottle of pins and held a blue one in my palm. “Here,” I offered. “Take it.”

Fellis swallowed it with spit.

“Can you drive?” he asked.

“I hate driving,” I said, and I scratched my leg.