Tuesday, August 20th
Patrick hid in his house for a week, living off of alcohol, old pizza, and stale potato chips. His mom called half a dozen times, and finally suggested he should talk to a priest.
"His name's Father Walter. I've been talking to him lately, Pat, even going to church, and it really helps. I know you're not religious, but maybe getting everything off your chest would make you feel better. He said he'd be happy to talk to you."
As if by providence, the phone died before he could respond.
He didn't care enough to plug it in.
An hour later, when Michael knocked on the door, Patrick practically dragged him inside. "What in the f**k are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Canada!"
"What?" Michael's nose wrinkled. "Holy f**k, Pat, it smells like an old bar in here."
