I remember the first time Pete said it as if he'd been thinking it for a long time

as if it wasn't just a booze talking said it like it was a matter of fact, a truth, not an opinion.

I want to crawl out of my own skin.

I sat in silence, held my beer with both hands watching the campfire die.

The night was loud and for a while I let the noise wash over me,

Zakadas, birds and rustling of the leaves.

I didn't know what to say to be honest.

His daughter had died a year ago in a car crash that he'd survived.

He'd been left with a divorce settlement, a scar on his neck, and a gaping hole in his life.

If that confession didn't convince you that he wasn't coping, then maybe the puffy bags under his eyes would, or the nails chew to the bone,

or the way he'd sigh every morning like he almost couldn't bear the thought of another day.

He spat, reached for the whiskey bottle by the base of his chair, fumbled it.

I was trying to find the words, picking at the label of my beer with a thumbnail while

he spoke up again.

I was drinking Jim.

I looked at him closely, watching the way the alcohol made his head wobble, the

way the confession had him haunched over the dirt.

Pete, you weren't.

Kenny breathalyzed you on the scene.

Had to do it whilst you held a body.

Told all of us about it.

Told us, you scored a perfect zero.

...