The rain thrummed on the roof of the pickup. Rivulets zig-zagged down the windshield, casting odd patterns of light and shadows as the flickering light from the streetlight filtered into the cab. The smell of fast food lingered thick in the air, soon to be joined with the familiar stench of tobacco as Papa fumbled with his lighter at the tip of a cigarette. Johnny stared out the window, quietly sipping his soda.

“Why does she do that?” Johnny finally asked. “Why does she… get mad like that?”

Papa shook his head, the ember of the cigarette following along lazily. “Don’t know,” he said. “She just… Sometimes she turns into her mother.”

Johnny didn’t know what that meant. Didn’t really *want* to know what that meant. The woman his father married was a stranger to him, and would probably always remain so.

“You’re gettin’ behind in your schoolwork,” Papa said. “I’m getting calls from the office. They say you aren’t even there half the time.”

Johnny’s fist clenched. Of course he was behind. *Every* kid put in his position would be behind. The surge of despair and anguish welled up inside, threatening to burst forth… But he held it down. Like always, he held it down. He felt that if he allowed it out, it would be free to go on a rampage, destroying everything in sight.

Papa looked towards his son. “You got anything to say to that? Anything at all?”

Johnny had things to say. He had a lot to say. But he didn’t.

Papa turned to look out his window. But as he did so, Johnny noticed something. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flush.

“Papa,” Johnny said, “have you been going to meetings?”

Papa jerked his head back towards his son with a start. “What meetings?” he growled.

Johnny rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “*Your* meetings, pops. In the basement of the church. With other people who have your… condition.”

Papa’s gaze was steady and even. “Every other night,” he said quietly. “Just like I been doin’ for four years. Every other damn night.”

Before he even finished, Johnny was shaking his head. “Papa. No. Stop. I went to the meeting yesterday. And the day before that, and the day before that. You weren’t there. Richard was asking about you.”

The leather on the steering wheel squeaked as Papa’s grip tightened. “Can’t believe you, Johnny. I can’t fucking believe you.”

Johnny threw his hands up in surrender and turned to look out the passenger window. There was no sense in arguing with the old man. He didn’t even want to be here in this truck, grabbing food at 9 pm to get away from that… that woman. Papa’s *wife.*

But Papa had not averted his gaze from his son. “Johnny, Johnny,” he said.

“Yes Papa?” Johnny answered without even realizing what he was doing. It was automatic now, after all these years of reciting the nursery rhyme with his old man.

But something creeped into Papa’s voice that Johnny didn’t like. “Eating *sugar?*” the old man said.

Johnny’s heart stopped as he realized what his father meant. That’s what the kids were calling it these days, *eating sugar.* Puffing the gigglebush. 420 friendly. Down with the perpetual lol. Johnny had been doing that, had been doing a *lot* of that, but if his father found out… “No, papa,” he said.

“Telling lies?”

“N-no papa…”

Papa leaned in, and for the first time, Johnny smelled the rotten stench of whiskey on his breath. “Open your mouth,” he whispered.

Johnny wanted to keep his mouth closed, wanted to resist, but that would absolutely give him away. Maybe it’s been long enough. Maybe he’ll be lucky. He tried to look away from his father as he whispered “Ha, ha, haaaa…”

And then, joining the melody of fast food, and old upholstery, and tobacco, and whiskey, was the sweet stink of of *cannabis indica.*

Papa began nodding. He continued nodding even as Johnny protested, as if he finally understood, as if a piece of the puzzle had finally fallen into place. “Papa– Daddy– *please*–“

“You’ve been living in *my* house,” the old man said steadily.

“I needed some way to cope. It’s only been a year. I just needed a little help–“

“Eating *my* food.”

“I’ll stop now, I’ll never pick it up again–“

“And using *my* electricity that I paid for with *my* paycheck.”

“BECAUSE I’M YOUR SON!” Johnny screamed.

Papa shook his head. “No. No son of mine is a druggie. You know what mom and I have said about drugs.”

“THAT WOMAN IS NOT MY MOM!!!” Johnny slammed his fists into the dashboard. “She’s not even my STEP-mom! She’s just a stupid woman!”

Papa’s eyes narrowed. “Johnny, I’m warnin’ you–“

“A year! A year, dad! Mom died and all it took you was a year to find some old bag to slap a ring on!”

“Johnny. Stop. Please.”

“No wonder you picked up the bottle again, I’d be a drunk too if I had to share a bed with that whore!”

Papa lurched towards Johnny, and for one horrifying moment Johnny was sure he was going to get hit. Instead, Papa’s arm flashed past him and opened the passenger side door. “Get out.”

The cool night air and sweet smell of rain rolled in, gently pushing aside the tobacco and whiskey that had been infecting the cab. Johnny blinked in surprise. “Where do I go?”he asked.

“Not here,” Papa said hoarsely. “Not home. Not anymore.”

Johnny sat still, bewildered. “It… it’s raining.”

Papa sighed and looked away. “There’s a homeless mission. Three blocks up the way. Across from the Methodist place. They’ll take you in. I’ll put your clothes out on the doorstep tomorrow. Your nice clothes. That way you can find a job.”

Johnny unbuckled. “And just what the hell do you expect me to do about highschool?”

“Get a fuckin’ GED,” Papa snarled. “Just like I did. When my pappy kicked me out. I was 17 like you and I turned out fine. Just fucking fine.”

Trying to control the rage building inside his chest, Johnny stepped into the softly falling rain. He turned to walk away, from his old man and his old life, but froze when he remembered… “What about Lilly?” he asked.

“What about Lilly?” Papa responded.

“I know how she is,” Johnny said. “She’ll miss me. She’ll miss her big brother. She’ll cry every night.”

Papa’s face was etched in stone, stoic except for the dumb, drunken sheen in his eyes. “She already does that,” he said. “She already cries every night. Your mother– your *real* mother– made damn sure of that.”

Johnny screamed and slammed the door. He walked away fast, as fast as he could, because if he didn’t he was going to kill the old man.

Papa watched as the silhouette of his son faded into the fog and the rain. He was gone. And Papa knew that he would probably never see him again. He sighed and popped open the glove box. He removed the revolver that he had brought along for such an occasion as this. There were six cylinders, but he had loaded only one. A couple times a week or so– though it was becoming more and more frequent– Papa liked to try his luck. There was about a 17 percent chance that there would be an existence-ending bang instead of a hollow click, and those odds got ever greater with every spin of the cylinder.

Papa gave it a good spin, put it against his temple, and watched to see if his luck would hold again tonight.