Thousand: Two Hundred Eighty-Five

I owned. It was a lost thing; whosever it was, she needed it back. Someone with sense could save it, could make it work for them. I wasn’t shocked, looking at that meth-ravaged thing. My artist’s eye saw it; it was like Daddy’d handed over a photo of an ugly room, and I could see immediately how the elements already there could be rearranged to make a good place. A little care, a little attention, a little presence of mind. That’s what was missing. I handed the mirror back. The next day I found a 12-step group for meth fiends.