Clutching the bottle of cheap bourbon in one hand, I listened to the cries for help.

They echo through the abandoned factory and bounce around inside my head,

stirring up memories I thought I'd drowned in booze long ago.

That sounds like a little girl, Roger says, watery eyes gazing into the dark interior of the hulking

factory. A swift summer breeze stirs his scraggly gray beard, but isn't strong enough to

agitate his dirty, matted hair. The breeze brings with it the familiar tang of his body

odor. Or maybe that's mine. It's hard to tell at this

point. We've been traveling together for so long, eating and drinking the same things. We

probably smell the same. Help, please, help me. The voice calls again from the old factory,

where it hunches against the night.

We ought to go in and help her, Roger says, looking down at me. I sit in the weeds. My back,

propped against a large rusting pipe, abandoned in the factory yard. I bring the bottle of cheap

bourbon up to my lips and take a long pull.

As the fiery liquid scratches its way down my throat, I return the bottle to the protective shell made by my pulled-up thighs and my abdomen.

I don't want to go in there, I say. She sounds just like her.

This second sentence, I don't really mean to say out loud.

But sometimes I say the things I shouldn't, the things that I'm thinking.

Just like who?

Roger asks.

I didn't say anything, I say.

Roger drops it, he knows me well.

Returning his gaze to the factory door, his eyes narrow.

...