I had been drinking, probably too much. I don’t remember. This was way back, before the white van, before Steve lost his job. He’d been bringing home crates of no-brand beer every other night. Four boxes to a crate. Twelve tins to a box. I must have gone out for some food, and then I woke up to them carrying me inside. Hands under my armpits and my knees. I couldn’t move.
My short story “Teeth” appears in print in Riptide.