Chapter 1: Close Encounters of the Strange Kind

“My name is Lucy, and I’m an alcoholic.” My voice echoes off the whitewashed cement walls and the circle of battered brown chairs. It’s hard to talk, let alone breathe, through the thick cloud of grief. I try to swallow, but it resists, leaving a bitter, waxy taste in my mouth.

Phillip, the aging counselor with a receding hairline and a too-wide smile, gives me a double thumbs up.

Who gives a thumbs-up when someone admits to being an alcoholic?

A man in a fedora with strawlike black hair wheezes, “Fantastic.”

I whip my head toward him. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He’s dressed like a 1920s gangster—suit, white-collared shirt, black overcoat. I glance up from his unusual clothes to find he looks more corpse than man. His skin is thin and papery, with gaunt cheeks. His waxy tongue darts out as he licks his lips.

Anxiety roils through my stomach when our eyes meet.

His eyes are red.

“Demi’s new to the country. I think he meant to congratulate you on this milestone. Acknowledging you have a problem is the first step.” Phillip tries to placate me.

“Ah, yes. I meant no offense,” Demi says. This time, there’s a slight accent. It’s distinctly Eastern European, smooth but heavy, like each word is laden with a secret.

“Please continue, Lucy. We’re happy you’re here.” Phillip encourages.

I clear my throat and focus on the empty, dinged-up folding chair directly across from me. “It’s been three days since my last drink.”

I want to add: Because I’m not an alcoholic. I just… don’t want to remember. I want to drift. Not caring. Not thinking.

I was already good at being numb before my brother, Louie, died. But instead of staying numb, something’s changed, and my memories don’t care what I want.

I see it all again: Louie falling. His scream. The sound when he hit the ground. Blood trickling from his mouth. Lifeless eyes staring through me.

“Um… after the…” The grief strangles me. I clear my throat, and the backs of my eyes burn. I blink away the sensation and choke out, “I’m good.” I stand, trying to flee this conversation—these memories, but as I take a step to leave, I kick the leg of my folding chair. A loud scrape makes my teeth clench, and my muscles lock up. 

Phillip stands, holding up his palm like I’m a spooked horse. “Please stay. There’s no judgment here.”

I take a deep breath. I don’t want to stay, but how many strikes do I get before I find myself behind bars? 

The judge went easy on me. First offense, recent trauma. Just six months of attending sobriety support group meetings and a case manager. 

But I don’t want to know what happens if I mess up again. I’m only thirty. I’m too young to be behind bars. To throw my life completely away. I sink into my chair with a nod.

“Marilyn, why don’t you go next?” Phillip asks the woman next to me.

Marilyn leans over to get a better look at me, and my anxiety spikes. Is she going to give me her condolences? If I meet her eyes, will they be filled with pity? 

“Shit, you’re the gal from the concert this weekend, aren’t you?” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. I can hear the confidence in her voice even as I groan and shake my head. I don’t want to recap my poor choices. 

“No—”

She cuts me off, leaning further into my space. I can smell red hots on her breath, but knowing where we are, I doubt it’s the candy. “Hot damn! It is you.” She cackles. “Oh, you remind me of my younger self…“ She trails off. There’s a soft smile on her lips as she reminisces while I grimace at the comparison. 

I sink further in my chair; the only thing we have in common is this room. 

“Did you get his number?” She elbows me like we’re pals.

I pinch my eyes closed. She means the number of the bass guitarist and my very public, very drunken criminal escapade: I stumbled three blocks from my apartment to the park, shoved through the crowd, and climbed onstage. I smashed the bassist’s guitar. I think he said, “That’s so hot,” right before he kissed me, then he started throwing shards of the busted bass into the crowd. 

But I’m the one who got slapped with a drunk and disorderly. Not him.

“Ah… um… he’s not really my type,” I mumble. 

“Marilyn,” Phillip’s sharp tone cuts through the tension between us. He raises his eyebrows and gestures for her to go on. 

She gives him an annoyed look before putting on a fake smile and standing. “Name’s Marilyn, and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been sober…” She trails off, pretending to count the days on her fingers before cackling and slapping her hand on her knee. “Hell, I’m not even sober now.”

That explains the cinnamon on her breath. 

Phillip presses his lips together in a harsh line, and his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Marilyn. Would you like to share anything else?”

“Yeah, I have this rash.” She begins pulling up the edge of her skirt.

“I’m not that kind of doctor, Marilyn! Pull your skirt down!” Phillip shrieks, hands flying over his eyes.

I turn my head the other way, shielding my eyes with my hand. 

I catch Demi watching me with those unnatural red eyes, and my arms break out in goosebumps. 

“What is your deal?” I hiss, more scared than annoyed. 

He lifts his palms. “No deal, no deal.”

Marilyn grumbles about her chaffing rash but returns to her seat.

“Demi, why don’t you bring us home for the night?” Phillip asks, although it sounds more like a plea than a question.

“Of course.” Demi stands. “I’m Demi. Well, I have not always been Demi; my name is Dimitrie, but my neighbor, Carl, insisted. He says it sounds strong and American. Also, when I go by Demi, his tiny dog does not try to bite me.” He smiles faintly, as if waiting for laughter that never comes. “Oh, and I’m an alcoholic,” he says the word like it’s a joke. His lips even upturn slightly at the corners. 

I think I hate him.  

“I’ve been sober for twelve days.” His upturned lips break into a full smile. His teeth are yellowed, and his canines are sharp.

“Congratulations,” Phillip says, sitting up a little taller. Pride lights his eyes, and I’m re-evaluating my judgment. Phillip may be overenthusiastic, but he seems to genuinely care.

“Thank you,” Demi replies with a slight bow. “It was the twenty-first of September when I found this wonderful program…”

I stifle a groan. Of course, he’s long-winded. Because what this group really needs is dramatic monologues.

I pick at my nails, desperate for a distraction and desperate to be anywhere else. As far as first impressions go, this group is dysfunctional, but it’s the only meeting in the city. I sigh in frustration. I wish the past week had never happened.

“…Lucy…” My attention snaps back to Demi. The way he says my name causes something to hum at the base of my skull, and my thoughts dry up and blow away. I run my hands through my hair, trying to rub away the weird feeling.

Demi continues, “I’m continually inspired by the recovery of my peers. In just a few short weeks, three have graduated! I can only hope the same for you, Lucy. You—”

Marilyn’s phone shrieks to life, blasting an obscene song at full volume.

Phillip jumps. “For the love—” he snaps his mouth closed before appealing to his higher power. “Let’s call it a night. I hope to see you all back here tomorrow.” Phillip rips his coat from the back of the chair before fleeing the room.

Marilyn answers the call. I don’t think she’s even noticed Phillip has left.

“You said ‘in the butt’? That’ll run you eighty.”

I grab my purse and hurry after Phillip, desperate to escape whatever that was.

“Lucy!” Demi calls after me, his accent dragging out my name. The hum returns, and a syrupy warmth spreads through my head. It’s almost like I’m buzzed. I have to plant my fingers against the wall to keep my balance, but I quicken my pace, ignoring him as I make my way down the dimly lit hall. It smells like stale takeout.

“Lucy!” he calls again.

I slam through the double doors.

The darkness sends a bolt of panic through me, and my steps falter. But the cold October air burns my lungs, clearing the strange buzzing from my brain. I hurry down the block, but I don’t get far before I hear the doors open with a metallic thud.  

“Lucy! You must not have heard me,” Demi says, jogging to catch up with me. I’m shocked he’s capable of jogging, given that he looks like a decrepit old fart. 

“Nope, I didn’t hear you,” I agree as I continue to walk, hoping he’ll take a hint. 

“Wait,” he pleads, touching the sleeve of my sweater.

I stop and stare at those unnerving red eyes, ready to rip the sleeve from his grip, but I can’t. The hum is back, but louder. Heavier. 

I try to shake it away, but it’s like my brain has been wrapped in velvet. Everything is soft, quiet, and slow.

“What do you want?” I huff. My voice sounds louder in my head, like I’m underwater. 

“Just a moment of your time.” He lets go of my sleeve and smiles. His canines gleam like warning signs.

“I really need to get going.” I try and fail to move. The fuzzy feeling in my head intensifies, and my feet are lead weights anchoring me to the concrete.

“I think we could help each other,” he says. What kind of help could he be looking for that I could give? My mind jumps to Demi staring at me not once, but twice, and to Marilyn’s conversation that had us running from the room. 

Ew, no. 

He’s read this situation all wrong. 

“No, I don’t think so.” I grimace, and if that’s not enough, the disgust my tone carries should be putting an end to this weird exchange. I try to move, but my feet won’t listen. 

“I can cure your addiction,” he says as he starts making swirling gestures with both hands in front of my face.

There’s no way he’s sober, swirling his hands in front of my face like some kind of cheap magician, and there’s no way Demi, of all people, could cure my addiction. 

“What are you doing?” I say, my voice is too

 loud, too shrill.

His hands slow. The swirling stops, and he takes a step back.

“You are afraid,” he says, quietly. He brings his hands together in front of his face, clasping his hands together like he’s praying as he takes me in. He opens and closes his mouth three times before he continues, “Forgive me. I believed… It does not matter, I was wrong.”

The pressure in my head loosens. The world rushes back in. I reel backward, bumping into the rough brick facade of the community center. I tear at my purse, searching for pepper spray while not taking my eyes off him.

“Are you well?” Demi asks, reaching for me. “I did not mean to frighten you so badly. I wanted to help. This has not happened—” 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I interrupt him as I point, twist, and depress the button.

The spray hits him right in the eyes.

He blinks at me, confused, before he registers the pain. Then he’s howling, sounding more like a wounded animal than a person. He claws at his eyes as he backs into the street. 

Right into the path of an oncoming ambulance.

“Watch out!”

Thud-crash. 

I pinch my eyes closed.

The tires squeal as the ambulance hits its brakes. A door opens, followed by a man shouting in disbelief.

I open my eyes to find a paramedic leaning over Demi’s slumped body. “Sir, can you hear me?”

If Demi responds, I don’t hear it.

Another paramedic, a woman, jumps out of the back of the ambulance with a gurney. They roll him on and strap him down before standing it up.

I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. I take a few hesitant steps closer.

“I-Is he going to be okay?” I stutter.

“Did you see what happened?” The man asks.

“Uh… yes, I didn’t mean for him to…” I trail off, showing them my pepper spray. 

My head swims as the adrenaline leaves my system just as violently as it showed up. The sirens, the lights, and the feeling that I’ve made an irredeemable mistake echo what happened only a week ago. Did I watch another person die?

I make eye contact with the concerned paramedics before I crumble to the concrete. I distantly recognize the pain of hitting my knees before everything goes dark.