22
It’s eighteen days before the official start of winter, twenty-one weeks after my fall off the roof rendered me temporarily disabled, and here I am reporting for my first official day back behind the counter at the Free Café. My boss is paying me under-the-table because I’m still not cleared to go back to work.
“Let’s see how you do before throwing you back into the full swing of things,” he suggested.
If all goes well, when I go to my GP next week, he’ll approve me for part-time employment. Then, I’ll send in the required paperwork and have the disability payouts adjusted accordingly.
When I told April the old me would’ve stayed on disability as long as possible, even after going back to work, she said, “Congratulations. You’re not a user anymore—of people or of substances.”
It’s
