Ezoic
I looked at him in that hospital bed. Yellow and wasted and dying. In a room with no flowers and no cards and no visitors except two sixteen-year-old boys covered in his blood.
Ezoic
“Three years sober,” I said finally. “Nathan told me.”
Greg opened his eyes.
“Three years, four months, and eleven days,” he said. “I counted this morning.”
“That’s good, Greg.”
“It’s too late,” he said. “But it’s good.”
He reached for the little table next to his bed. His hand was shaking so badly it took him three tries.
He picked up a plastic bag. A hospital belongings bag. The kind they put your clothes and wallet in when you’re admitted.
He handed it to me.
“Pocket,” he said. “Of the jacket. Nate’s wearing it. But I took it out before. It’s in the bag.”
I opened the bag.
There was a wallet. Old, cracked leather. A pair of reading glasses with one arm taped. A bronze coin. 3 YEARS. A recovery chip.
