“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Old habits, I guess.”

“You haven’t done drugs in years.”

“Things change.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t in fact done any drugs, though I had been tempted for a few brief seconds.

“You haven’t drank in years. You’ve been sober.”

“Right.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No. But you will anyways.”

Wes sighed, his face turned a bit pale as he leaned forward on his knees and whispered, “Do you want to die?”

I couldn’t answer. I could only nod.

“Why?”

“Because she didn’t, and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into tears and then reached into my pocket and grabbed the locket, throwing it across the room, praying it would break.

Praying the hold she had on my heart would end.

It didn’t.

I fell from the bed to my knees and rocked back and forth, the tears were dried up — they always were.

“Gabe…” Wes gripped my shoulders. “You need to talk to someone — you need help.”

I shook my head. What I needed was music. What I needed was—

“Guitar,” I said in a foreign voice. “Get my guitar.”

Anyone else would have questioned me. Wes didn’t.

Within minutes he was back in the room, guitar in hand.

I didn’t say anything. I sat on the floor, put the guitar in my lap and started singing.

Seconds later I was focused — calm.

My therapy was music.

But I’d pushed music out of my life — because it was another reminder of my sins, my regrets, so I felt guilty when I needed it, because what did she have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn’t deserve comfort.

Two hours of playing music and my fingers hurt; they weren’t as calloused as they used to be.

I set the guitar down and stared at the floor.

Wes sat down next to me. We both stared at the wall.

“Gabe.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about Ashton Hyde.”

I froze and then did something I never thought I’d ever do to my best friend. I lied and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Watching my best friend wallow in the pit of hell? Not my favorite way to spend a Wednesday morning. The truth about hitting rock bottom? Sometimes you have to bang your head against the ground before you finally realize the way isn’t down but up. —Wes M.

Saylor

“You’ll have to sign in when you arrive and sign out when you leave.” I glanced at her nametag — Martha Hall. I’d been told a Mrs. Hall would be the liaison between me and the school during my time served at the Pacific Northwest Group Home. She pointed to the two security guards at the door, “Every evening your bag will be checked for cameras, and you’ll have to leave your phone at the front desk.”

“My phone?” I asked. “Why?”

“Rules.” Mrs. Hall’s smile didn’t quite reach her blue eyes. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back so severely I wondered if she’d be more happy if she loosened it up a bit and let her face have a break. I shivered a bit, she reminded me of my first grade teacher — the one who wouldn’t let me go out to recess. Great. “And our guests deserve their privacy, besides, you’re here to work not text your boyfriend.”

Uh. Okay. “Totally fine.”

She sniffed. “Obviously this isn’t a paid internship, so just do the best you can to make your hours each week. If you stay on track you’ll be finished by the end of the semester.” Mrs. Hall beamed. She had black owl-like glasses and a tight wide smile — though upon closer inspection a bit of lipstick had found it’s way onto her abnormally white teeth. So maybe she wouldn’t be too bad if she just smiled more.

“Great.” I swallowed and glanced around. The home reminded me a lot of the place where Eric had lived when he was small. It even smelled the same, like warm food, coffee, and people. At the time, I’d hated that Eric had to be there, but soon it had felt like our home too. People had been so friendly and he was happy. Maybe this place was the same.

“Now.” Mrs. Hall cleared her throat and handed me a checklist. “If you’d just go through every name on the list here. These are the ones we signed up for your music class. Follow the hall all the way to the end, the two double doors will lead to the rec room where a piano is waiting. Enjoy yourself, honey.”

With shaking hands I took the clipboard and quickly counted the names. Twenty people. Twenty had signed up for my class. It was supposed to be fun, you know, teach everyone a song, give them an instrument like a cow bell and then be on my way.

But twenty?

It was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

I followed the hall all the way to the end, opened the doors and took a soothing breath before walking into the room.

The smell of chocolate chip cookies filled the air, making me feel less afraid. Food always did that — there was a certain comfort that came along with it. Cookies made me think of home — homemade me think of my mom and Eric, and thinking of them made me feel safe, protected, and strong. I could be strong now, just like Mom had been strong for us.

Several of the patients were already sitting in chairs. A few were in wheelchairs. My heart broke.

“Um, hi,” I said in a quiet voice. “I’m going to be your teacher for the music workshop.”

“Speak up!” an elderly man called out. “Can’t hear you back here!”

He was in the front row.

Clearing my throat, I spoke again. “My name’s Saylor and — ”

“Do you sail?” A girl in the front clapped her hands and then jumped to her feet and turned around to face the patients. “I love sailing! Who else loves sailing?”

Nobody said anything.

With a happy sigh, she sat back down and started talking to herself. “Sail, sail, sail. How I wish I could still sail. Nice to meet you, Saylor!”

She said my name so loudly that if the elderly man hadn’t caught it that time, there really wasn’t any hope for him — ever.

“As I said…” I offered a weak smile. “I’m Saylor and—”

I was losing them.

Already the eyes were glazing over. I knew some of the patients had memory issues, others struggled with mental handicaps, and I was boring them to tears.

Screw it. I raised my hand, “Who wants to make noise?”

“Me! Me! Me!” The girl from the front jumped into the air and started dancing while cheers erupted around her.

“Awesome.” I smiled and started handing out the different instruments. I had recorders — you know, like the plastic looking flutes you get in fifth grade music class — a cow bell, a miniature piano, a harmonica, and three drums.

Yeah, we weren’t going to be winning any Grammy’s, but I had tried to pick out instruments I knew Eric would like, and although he hated loud noises, he was totally okay with being the one making them.

Last year Mom had bought him a drum set.

My ears had been recovering ever since.

“I want drums!” The old man got up from his seat, hobbled toward me, jerked the sticks right out of my hands, and brought the small drum back to his seat, smiling the whole time like I’d just given him a new hearing aid.

The girl who liked sailing picked out the recorder.

It took me fifteen minutes to get all the instruments out, mainly because every time I offered one, someone else piped up that they wanted it. I broke the groups up. The recorders sat in one section, the drums in another, and so forth.

“What about Princess?” a voice asked.

I turned around and scanned the room, squinting as I tried to identify the person who had spoken.

“Over here,” she said smoothly, her voice was high-pitched but really pretty and clear, almost childlike.

I turned to my right and noticed a girl in a wheelchair sitting in the corner. She had really long blonde hair pulled back into a scrunchie and was wearing an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt.