I arrived at the city limits, watched downtown crawl by on my left. Took the 14th Street exit and turned toward West Midtown, where we live. I was about five miles out when the stereo popped on – I hadn’t been listening to anything other than the frantic ramblings of my mind, and were those to be recorded I’d wind up in a padded room. Probably will anyway. If so, I’ll save a cot for you and count us both lucky.

The broadcast began with the same grumbling laughter I’d heard in the car with Caspian while driving home from the Full Moon Saloon. I looked down and saw the clock was still stuck on 12:00. Longest damn hour in recorded history. Then that gravelly voice came through – the DJ at the dingiest strip bar on the bad side of hell.

“Welcome back to The Midnight Hour, ladies and gentlemen. Heh, who am I kidding? We have an audience of one tonight. And I so hope he’s enjoyed the programming we prepared especially for him. But all good things must come to an end, even hours as fun as this. Beware what comes after midnight, Jesse. Do like the song says, and let it all hang out. Don’t hold nothing in. And maybe we’ll see you around. Until then, enjoy your walk home.”

The clock turned 12:01 at the precise moment my right front tire blew with the sound of an M80, surely detonated by whoever was behind this. Pulling to the side of the road, I promised myself right then that if I ever found this guy, I was going to put him through as much pain as humanly possible.

That’s a promise I wish I could take back.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

No phone, no cash for a cab. Thankfully I was only a couple miles from home. Still, August in Atlanta is no time for a walk. And my throat felt like a vacuum filter. If our bodies are mostly water I should have evaporated before I reached my front door.

I still had no idea what day it was. I assumed Sunday, but wasn’t sure. The lack of cars lining my street, and the empty driveways, led me to believe it was a weekday and that my neighbors were at work. Not that I knew what they did or where it took them. Many of my neighbors pal around, but we keep mostly to ourselves. Recovering addicts are like that, I guess. Don’t want to tell our story outside of sanctioned rooms. Explain why we’re refusing the cold beer offered by the hospitable neighbor who doesn’t trust people that don’t drink. Listen, friend. I’m liable to fuck your wife after a few whiskeys. But you can take my sober word to the bank.