Fiset is sleeping on the couch with his jeans half unzipped. The TV’s on. A stroboscope of blue light is ricocheting off his face. He’s snoring despite the sound. The music isn’t coming from the TV; it’s playing on a brand-new stereo at the back of the room. I recognize the album. A compilation of 1990s punk hits. Some people just never move on.

The day before yesterday, I left an unmarked envelope with two hundred dollars in the rapist’s mailbox. What happened? Well, there’s that shiny new stereo with ridiculous plastic curves that do nothing to enhance the sound quality. Prodigy sounds way too bassy, and the voices are all rattly. The concrete floor isn’t helping matters.

What he did with the rest of the cash is, as I had hoped, on display on the coffee table. Fiset’s sad private party. Vodka, boxes of fruit juice, a bag of weed, a nugget of hash, rollies, a glass pipe, some brown powder, aluminum foil, a lighter, a straw, paper scraps. At least there are no needles. I hate needles.

Two Styrofoam containers, one with a splotch of processed cheese, the other with a congealed leftover poutine.

I love the word “paraphernalia”: from the Latin, paraphernalis, meaning “crap excluded from the dowry.”

In other words, the worthless crap we just can’t help carrying around with us.

I figure he’s been mixing his vodka with juice, adding it as he goes and drinking straight from the bottle. And while I’ve never touched heroin, I’ve seen enough people do it to know that Fiset has been chasing the dragon for two days.

I take the alley. As I cross the yard, I give Ricky a treat then go down the stairs to 1876-A. The dog follows me. I sit down with it for twenty minutes, listening to its owners talk about their vacation to the Dominican Republic. They’re smoking in the kitchen and have left the window open. They’re leaving Tuesday night. It’s Monday. That’ll make my life easier. It’ll be a good time to come back. Tonight is just to make sure Fiset is still making good use of my money. If he is, I’ll send him a little more next week.

The door’s unlocked. I leave Ricky a bone the size of a femur, which he chews on with determination. I’m just here to take a look. Just a quick checkup and I’ll be on my way.

But Fiset is snoring. I’ve been here fifteen minutes and he’s still snoring. I can hear the wet crackling sound of Ricky’s teeth on his treat. I decide it’s time to make my play. I put on gloves. Lock the door. Approach the sleeping man.