Smell of cat pissed carpet. Pots and plates piled in the sink. Mice laughing at traps.

Windows broken. A cold breeze blows through the house. Men sitting in a circle passing a bottle of cough medicine around. Lips chapped, bloody. Scabs on their bodies. Seated on cardboard.

Don’t drink it all, Pete said to Mikey. Save some for the rest of us, he demanded, the two stared at each other. That’s it. You’re cut off, the old man said to him, grabbing for the bottle of suppressant. Give me that. The two began to wrestle. Punches thrown. Mikey drinks the final swig of medicine. He throws the bottle down, spiking it like a football. You’ve gone and done it now, Pete warned, pulling out a knife. I told you to share. That’s how we do it here. How we survive.

I’ll get more, Mikey said. I’ll steal it.

How? That’s prescription only. We were lucky to get it from the clinic. What kind of magic are you going to pull? Pete asked.

I’ll go there and tell them I’m sick. Real sick. I’ll get it. Just put the knife away.

Pete puts the switchblade back in his pocket. He warns him, be back by sundown. Mikey runs out into the street.

He’s not coming back, Thomas said. He’ll  never come back. What? You think he’s just going to stroll in here with a bottle of cough medicine? I doubt it.

Yeah. If he did get it, he’s somewhere drinking it right now, said John.

He’ll get it one of these days. He’ll run across his maker, Pete said. There are rules, the men nodded their heads in agreement. 

It’s getting dark, John told the group. Should we go find him?

And then what? Thomas asked.

Kill him, Pete said. He has to pay for these sins.

You sure?

As sure as I’ve ever been.

Have you ever killed anyone? John  asked.

People who have don’t talk about it. It’s the ones who brag about it that haven’t. 

Mice ran across the floor. A black bird flew in through the window. Night has come. A reckoning awaits.