The fog lifted and the hangover returned, causing my brain to throb. Amazing, the swings in life. A couple nights ago I was experiencing the highest of highs – a golden crown on the achievements of the past ten years. And here I am now at the lowest point since I started down this path toward recovery.

“Think they might have slipped something into one of your drinks? Something dissociative or hallucinogenic?”

“I’m not hallucinating this, Al. My face, those pictures, that newscast, that call. You tell me which of those isn’t real.”

Al nodded. “No, I don’t mean like that. Not like an acid trip, or anything. Back when I was using, I once train hopped down past Alabama toward New Orleans. Got mixed up with a pack of ramblers into some twisted shit. Occult-type shit. Would conduct these rituals while taking these designer drugs they cooked up on their own. Called bath salts now, I guess. Which is basically a catchall term for drugs of unknown composition. The shit they cooked up? Man, it just took their minds away, made them all zombie-like. Vacant eyes, nobody home. Feral, kind of. Like an animal.”

Doctor O knew a thing or two about feral humans. Another connective thread?

“I never took any of the stuff they were cooking,” Al continued. “I was a tad more discerning. Junky, sure. But of the more pretentious variety. I liked to know where my crack came from. Before there was farm to table, there was lab to vein for fastidious fuckups like me.