at desks formed in a rectangle. Nicholle figured the room was used for Bible study.
A chubby woman with short, copper-colored hair, sporting a tattoo of praying hands on her left forearm led the meeting. After reading the A.A. Preamble and leading the Serenity prayer, she opened the floor. Counterclockwise. Which meant Nicholle was third in line.
Nicholle listened to people’s personal tales of loss and recovery. When it was her turn, she crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and took hold at the juncture.
“Hi, I’m Nicholle.”
“Hi, Nicholle,” everyone said.
“I, ah…became an alcoholic a little over two years ago. My mother died when I was two and my father was rarely home, so it was mostly me and my older brother growing up.
“So, about two years ago I went to work for my father in the family business…only it didn’t work out. I didn’t quite fit in, since I was the ‘artiste’ in the family.” She paused. “I never quite fit in. Anyway, after I was, in effect, fired from an internship, I hit the party scene, drinking and pakzing my way through D.C. and Maryland. I hooked up with a leader of a skeemz gang and cribbed in, did what I could to earn my keep. But I was drinking more than I was making, so I stole money from him to keep myself boozed and pakzed up. I knew he’d find out eventually, and I called my brother for money.
“He said he would give it to me only if I came in for treatment that he could monitor. I was desperate, so I agreed. Only I haven’t seen the gang leader since. Which means I…haven’t lived up to Step 9 of the program, but something tells me…I may have the chance to reconcile that.”
Her gaze shuttled around the room until it landed on Daria. She had that Mother Earth aura and she looked at Nicholle with the same intensity she probably gave a mushroom burger.
Nicholle spoke on. “This afternoon, I found out my father fell ill, with only five days to live. So I went to a bar and had a drink. I have to admit, it felt good, relieved a bit of the stress. But it’s good that I felt guilty enough to come tonight, cuz a couple years ago, I would have thought nothing of it. Anyway, thanks for letting me share.”
The group thanked her for sharing.
b
After she made her farewells, she trotted across the parking lot and climbed into warm leather.
“Home.”
Nicholle sat, numb, behind the wheel as it crossed the 14 th Street Bridge. The car continued on autopilot through the streets of Southwest D.C., snaking past tony shops and bars that spilled forth moneyed clientele. The bouquet of culinary creations of four-star restaurants wafted through the air vent, but it failed to stir her senses. Her gaze swept over the reflections of buildings undulating in the waters of the Potomac River.
Flashes of light illuminated the interior of the car driving under the street lamps. Flashes of memory illuminated her thoughts.
Nicholle tapped her index finger three times against her thumb. Prismatic colors spiraled around her, then whipped into a tight coil, bringing the scent of fresh flowers. The standard greeting sounded in her ears, “Welcome to Cognition.”
“Play Tekirna Maro,” Nicholle said. Tekirna’s voice flooded the car, and Nicholle’s senses filled with the smell of vanilla and the sights of purple and orange lights.
She checked her father’s status on the hospital node, but it only blinked “Status Unchanged” in bright blue. She sank down into the seat and closed her eyes, all the way home.
Arriving at the programmed destination, the car slid under the garage door, eased into a designated parking space, and shut off. Nicholle exited and headed for the nearby transport tube.
As she rode along the horizontal track to her condo, her incoming cog light flashed purple. Call from Tyla Porreaux. Nicholle tapped to answer the call, voice only, and Tyla’s chattering instantly filled Nicholle’s head.
“There you are. I swear, you need to stay spiraled
A chubby woman with short, copper-colored hair, sporting a tattoo of praying hands on her left forearm led the meeting. After reading the A.A. Preamble and leading the Serenity prayer, she opened the floor. Counterclockwise. Which meant Nicholle was third in line.
Nicholle listened to people’s personal tales of loss and recovery. When it was her turn, she crossed one leg over the other at the ankle and took hold at the juncture.
“Hi, I’m Nicholle.”
“Hi, Nicholle,” everyone said.
“I, ah…became an alcoholic a little over two years ago. My mother died when I was two and my father was rarely home, so it was mostly me and my older brother growing up.
“So, about two years ago I went to work for my father in the family business…only it didn’t work out. I didn’t quite fit in, since I was the ‘artiste’ in the family.” She paused. “I never quite fit in. Anyway, after I was, in effect, fired from an internship, I hit the party scene, drinking and pakzing my way through D.C. and Maryland. I hooked up with a leader of a skeemz gang and cribbed in, did what I could to earn my keep. But I was drinking more than I was making, so I stole money from him to keep myself boozed and pakzed up. I knew he’d find out eventually, and I called my brother for money.
“He said he would give it to me only if I came in for treatment that he could monitor. I was desperate, so I agreed. Only I haven’t seen the gang leader since. Which means I…haven’t lived up to Step 9 of the program, but something tells me…I may have the chance to reconcile that.”
Her gaze shuttled around the room until it landed on Daria. She had that Mother Earth aura and she looked at Nicholle with the same intensity she probably gave a mushroom burger.
Nicholle spoke on. “This afternoon, I found out my father fell ill, with only five days to live. So I went to a bar and had a drink. I have to admit, it felt good, relieved a bit of the stress. But it’s good that I felt guilty enough to come tonight, cuz a couple years ago, I would have thought nothing of it. Anyway, thanks for letting me share.”
The group thanked her for sharing.
b
After she made her farewells, she trotted across the parking lot and climbed into warm leather.
“Home.”
Nicholle sat, numb, behind the wheel as it crossed the 14 th Street Bridge. The car continued on autopilot through the streets of Southwest D.C., snaking past tony shops and bars that spilled forth moneyed clientele. The bouquet of culinary creations of four-star restaurants wafted through the air vent, but it failed to stir her senses. Her gaze swept over the reflections of buildings undulating in the waters of the Potomac River.
Flashes of light illuminated the interior of the car driving under the street lamps. Flashes of memory illuminated her thoughts.
Nicholle tapped her index finger three times against her thumb. Prismatic colors spiraled around her, then whipped into a tight coil, bringing the scent of fresh flowers. The standard greeting sounded in her ears, “Welcome to Cognition.”
“Play Tekirna Maro,” Nicholle said. Tekirna’s voice flooded the car, and Nicholle’s senses filled with the smell of vanilla and the sights of purple and orange lights.
She checked her father’s status on the hospital node, but it only blinked “Status Unchanged” in bright blue. She sank down into the seat and closed her eyes, all the way home.
Arriving at the programmed destination, the car slid under the garage door, eased into a designated parking space, and shut off. Nicholle exited and headed for the nearby transport tube.
As she rode along the horizontal track to her condo, her incoming cog light flashed purple. Call from Tyla Porreaux. Nicholle tapped to answer the call, voice only, and Tyla’s chattering instantly filled Nicholle’s head.
“There you are. I swear, you need to stay spiraled
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