I had spoken to Grandma Winger earlier that morning to tell her that her grandson, the one she had raised like a son, had been killed. At the time, I thought he was killed while trying to escape. She refused to believe it. She said that they were coming to visit him this Saturday, and he knew it. According to her, his current life was the best one he’d ever had.

“When is the funeral?” I asked.

“Saturday, if you’s able to make it. Can you do it Saturday?”

“Yes, I can. I will.”

I rolled over after hanging the phone on its cradle and stared up at the ceiling. It hadn’t changed.

The breeze outside caused the aluminum of the trailer to bend in and out, making the sound of a whip cracking.

I sat up.

I lay back down.

I decided to get up and work on Ike’s funeral some.

I stumbled down the hallway into the living room and made some notes.

Preparing the funeral sermon of a stranger killed under suspicious circumstances was challenging. I grew weary, but I still couldn’t sleep.

On my way back to bed, I stopped by the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, I discovered I looked as tired as I felt.

As I turned to head back to bed, I noticed a small pile of clothes near the shower. It was about two days’ worth. I smiled as I thought of how Susan hated that. Having that thought gave me a strong urge to leave them there, which I only overcame because if I left them in reaction to her, she would still be controlling my life. I bent down and scooped them up, slinging one sock between my legs as I did. When I reached for it, I saw something that stopped my heart.

On the back of my left leg, there was a cut about two inches long.

I dropped the clothes and bent down even farther to take a closer look. It wasn’t very deep, but still deep enough for AIDS-infected blood splattered on it to get into my bloodstream.

When did I get it? Was it today or before what happened in the sally port?

For the second time that night, my phone rang.

I rushed to the phone, grabbing the receiver as I climbed into bed.

“John John,” the voice said. “John John.”

Slightly slurred, slightly desperate, slightly scared.

The voice was the voice I heard within the sound of my own when I had been drinking. It was the voice of my mother, and she only called me John John when she was drunk.

“John John, answer me. Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“They got me locked up again. I’m dying. You’ve got to come see me soon.”

“Mom, you’re not dying. It just feels like it. It’s withdrawals.”