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A listener note. Please be advised this episode contains mature content and themes.

Imagine. It's a Saturday afternoon. You're 14 years old.

You're next in line at the corner, Bodega. You're right, legs shakes.

A nervous tick. And your eyes dart to a newspaper headline about a plane crash.

You shudder. You're afraid to fly.

Next customer. You slap your items on the counter.

And a bottle of old crow. You got ID.

Is he serious? You scan his face. He is. You flip in the bird.

Identify this. It's the law. You have to be 18.

Give me the whiskey, Hassan, or I'll tell your pops what else you smoke besides algebra class.

He gives you the evil eye.

You drop a few bills, grab your bag, and speed out the door.

It's warm for October in New York City, but the cool wind whips through each alley reminding you winter is not far away.

You make your way downstairs to the three room flat you call home.

Through a broken window, the sunset casts orange shadows on the peeling paint.

It's splotchy like a calico cat. The hallways melds a pine oil and musk.

You choke back the urge to throw up, and you twist the cast iron door knob.

A motley crew sits in a circle passing around a joint. Skeeter sees you first.

Hey, where you been? Out.

You head for the bathroom. The only private space.

You pull down on the metal string overhead. A 60 watt bulb flickers twice, and floods the dank space with a greenish haze.

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