An old bottle rested inside. Like something from an apothecary, he smiled enchanted. The label read "HPL-0717." He shrugged, and looked at a tag. "Figment," he muttered, "what is that, a street name?" The label had a list of effects. Deeper his brow furrowed. It guaranteed a boost in intelligence, so magnificent, it would let one see the Truth itself. "Okay," he laughed, but stowed it in a pocket.

Snow fell faster, and Kayden looked up at the sky. Better get home, he thought, and promised to call Rutger the Sheriff. The cold bit into the skin, and his socks were wet. Over the snow he moved at a slow though persistent pace. Maybe, he hoped, the owner of the Figment would pay him for returning his package. A smile dared to break over his face.

Quick as his grin was born, the trailer before him buried it. After moving here, losing his last home, Kayden learned to keep nothing of value where it could be easily found. Like his car, the thief had found little worth stealing. They had destroyed his few possessions. He moved through the mess. Secured through a hole in the floor, all his valuables were in a safe. Kayden stopped. Upon the floor was the hidden cache. He dropped back, butt landed on the bed.

Tears filled his scarred hands. All his bills were due in a week. The thieves had even stolen his mother's wedding ring. It was of no monetary value, but he could never replace it. Kayden, for the first time, felt all thought flee. This emptiness was filled by aches of his body, knees ached, shoulder agitated by the cold.

"Jillian," he whispered. He had saved up money, which was in the safe. "How will I tell her?" I was so close, he thought. He looked about the ruin, "I can get out of this," Maybe, if I help her, cook diner or something, he thought, and his heart hoped that this day would end with a smile.

After the divorce, his ex-wife had moved into another trailer. Jillian had told him to stay away last time they talked, but she was also high.

He stood, pushed down the emptiness, and wiped away tears. I can get out of this, thought Kayden. I'll go talk to Jillian, tell her that Rehab is still on. A plan is better than no plan.

Every trailer court in Owl Sticks was the same. Very little difference in the lives, no one came to the dredges of Lear Mountain. Now snow came down harder, flakes bloated. Winter made the rot lower, like a busted freezer in a junkyard. Kayden closed his mouth, for every breath pulled in the decay. At the turning of the seasons, when temperatures changed in sudden sharpness, he noticed the soured putrescence. No matter the filth and stink, mused Kayden, you can learn to bear it. Life has a way of reminding one of their low lots in life. Busted cars rusted away. Houses leaned. As snow went everywhere, people went nowhere.

Jillian's trailer set at the back of the trailer court. The sign, which displayed its name, was long gone. Posts where it had hung were decorated with flyers for churches, most were gone too. A waist high chain link fence kept no one out. Junkies jumped its fence, instead of using the roads. Chicken wire patched the gaps. Although summer was well-gone, bug zappers hummed, electric blue light made all appear frozen. Yards, tore up with only patches of grass, were buried by the building blizzard. The homes leaned away from each other, disgusted.

It sat. Mustard yellow of exterior was stained in streaks in vertical strokes of a sickly hue. The porch, Kayden reckoned, was built by a carpenter incapable of right angles. Cheap wood had weathered the years poorly, now near black. Here hung another bug zapper, which was the only one day. Broken, it had run till it had quit, like the black truck out front. He had given it to Jillian, but it had given up. The truck was the next goal, after rehab. Kayden felt the emptiness prowled up into his heart, but he focused on the next step. He raised hand to knock, which shook. Tears burst out. How do I tell her?

Icy wind turned the tears to needles. Away he wiped them, cleared his throat, and knocked. The door had been kicked open, repaired, so many times, it could never properly close. A sigh slipped out; he shook his head.

"Hello," he said, pushed open the door, "Jillian, are you here?"

She sat on the couch, head tilted slightly back. The heater blew tobacco ash choked air, which mixed with the scorched coffee. Kayden cursed, turned it off. I should have come by, cleaned the place, he thought and felt his cheeks burn. Every step made the floor creak, though they were hidden by howls of the storm.

Before Jillian he stopped. Kayden looked at a small table, and wondered how she had scored so much. She often passed out after getting a fix. Sores marred skin, once perfect. Did you run me off to do this, he wondered. Clothes hung off her, bones too sharp under pale skin. Mascara ran from tears.

"I'm sorry," he said, but looked away from her face. "I should have come by sooner. You promised to take care of yourself better." Killian sighed, wiped his brow, "I lost my job." Silence greeted this, and he looked anywhere but at Jillian. "I promised to get you help," he swore, "and I know you don't think you need it. I'll find another job!" Killian thought of his old bosses. "I guess you're right. They did get away with it." He sat before her, took her wrist.

Kayden frowned, for they were too cold. Jillian runs hotter than this, part of him said stupidly. He felt the wrist, nothing. Again, he checked, and then examined the other arm. He stood, checked her neck, but there was no pulse. "NO," he barked. He opened her eye, which had enchanted him, but their luster was gone. "I promised," his knees buckled and tears blurred his yes.