Making Ends Meet
Harry can feel himself breaking. It's the difference between comfortable and barely getting by. To anyone else it's a nominal amount but to Harry, it's an entire month's living expenses. To watch his security slip through his fingers like grains of salt paralyzes him with despair. He's in stasis. Unable to move forward and unwilling to go back. Going back will kill him. Literally. Six months on parole, 12 months sober. Going back is not an option. Maria would leave for good, taking Troy and Draven with her. The old habits would creep back in and thread their way through him, opening up old veins, worn out pathways, reigniting a long dormant fire that would eat him alive. Immolate him and everything he's fought so hard for. Eight hundred dollars. Gone. For him to make that kind of cash in three days would require an immense amount of backbreaking work or dumb luck. Harry doesn't believe in luck. Or lotteries, or prayer, or affirmations. He believes in getting...