An hourglass had been turned, and the last grains of sand were already falling. Redemption was no longer an option, but he would do the retreat—for old times’ sake, for Drake, who had always believed in him, and for his little girl.

  –Alright, he said to himself. –Time to cut the crap.

  It took almost ten minutes of hard work and toenails flying before he hobbled into the shower. The water spurted in cold and hot intervals, making him yelp.

  He wiped himself dry and looked in the mirror for the second time this day.

  –Damn. Not even Santa Muerte would recognize you now, gramps.

  Grey scruff had taken over his face. He found a shaving kit in the bathroom closet and got to it. Soon, a cleaner face emerged – a face he remembered. The same dimpled chin, the same sharp cheekbones. He ran a finger over the ridged skin, going through every line.

  The duffel bag hadn’t been used for years. He wiped the dust off and sneezed. It didn’t take long to pack his things: t-shirts, boxers, a couple of ”you-never-know” rubbers, the Old Spice deodorant, and a packet of cigarettes. Satisfied, he sank into the sofa, lit a joint, and squinted at the events of last night. Two empty whisky bottles, ten empty beer cans, and a sequin 34D bra belonging to a blonde bimbo whose name escaped him lay on the floor.

  He picked it up, sniffed, and recoiled.

  –Well, someone had a good time last night, he grunted. –No wonder the headache.

  The television droned on with updates:

  ”… with a thousand casualties on both sides, this battle ranks among the bloodiest since …”

  ”… and now we return to our regular programming, where Dr. Phil will talk to an ex-war veteran who found love in -”

  War veteran. His mind drifted to the ranch he ran away to as a boy when things were tough at home. Farmer Hank had been like a grandfather to him, showing him how to ride and care for the horses. He hadn’t seen the ranch in years. Was Hank still there? Doing the math in his head, he realized that Ol’ Hank would most likely be around 127 years old by now. If he were still around at all, he’d be six feet below ground.

  A shrill ring jolted him back to the present. He answered without looking at who the caller was.

  –Ten-inch rider speaking.

  –Please, Mark, it’s Sarah. What’s with you and your private parts?

  –Ah, shit. I reckoned it was someone else!

  She sighed.

  –Like your mom?

  –Um, maybe not.

  –You’re doing drugs again, aren’t you?

  –No, ain’t on no drugs, I... I'm peachy.

  –Goddammit, Mark. Stop lying! I woke up in the middle of the night and saw ten messages from you, and then it stopped. Are you listening to me?

  –Hey, I won't text you again. I was pretty wasted and...

  –Of course you were. Why? Why can’t you just be normal?! Like sober, just for once? She paused and swallowed. –I called Lenny this morning, and we talked about you.

  He shot up from the purple cushions, as if he'd been stung.

  –Drake?! That's why he came here?

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  –Yes. We both think you should seek professional help.

  –Help with what?

  –Help for your drinking! And to do something about your smoking! You had a beautiful voice, and now you sound like... like Frankenstein's monster!

  –Sheesh... I – I’m going to a... a fucking Serenity, 12-step, or whatever it’s called. He sat down again, trying to hide the fury. –But I reckon you already know that, Mrs. Mission Impossible.

  –Don't be like that. I care about you, and Lenny cares too.

  He rubbed his face. That damn stubble was already starting to grow back.

  – Okay. You care. Great. Well, I won’t do anything to jeopardize your wedding, like showing up with my pants down.

  –If you do, you are a dead man, Mark. But daddy’s not doing well. The stroke last year took a toll on him, I'm not sure he's ever coming home from rehab.

  –Well, that's a relief...

  –Mark!

  –Sorry. So what about this new fella of yours? Clinging to your old man's money like a leech?

  She scoffed.

  –Bob has his own money. He's on a new project, a bridge over the river. He’s been working like a dog. I’m proud of him, you know? He’s really making something of himself. He's a good man.

  –Right, unlike this loser who can’t even smack a fucking nail with a frying pan!

  –Shut up! Why didn’t you call your daughter on her birthday? She turned four yesterday! Don't you care about her?

  Samantha. Four years old. It seemed like only moments ago when he first held her in his arms. And now he couldn't even remember the day she was born.

  –Damn ... I’m a piece of shit.

  –You're not wrong about that. She really misses you, you know? She’s been asking about you for weeks!

  He looked at the picture on the wall, a smiling little girl with braids and a yellow bow. She had her mother’s hazel eyes, his dimples.

  –Um, just give me one day, and I’ll call her and give her a belated birthday shoutout. Is that alright? Tell her I love her more than anything else.

  –Why don’t you tell her yourself?

  He shook his head, trying to clear the alcohol-induced haze from his mind.

  –Hey, I’m sloshed. Don’t want her to know her pops is in this state. Can’t I call her tomorrow?

  –MARK! You’re her father! Now, pull yourself together, dammit. Talk to her now!

  –No, I... I can’t…wait!

  –I’ll put her on. Sammy! Sarah shouted. –Daddy’s on the phone!

  He could hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet running and then the voice of a four-year-old girl.

  –He-hello?

  –Uh, hey there Peanut, daddy’s here!

  –Daddy! she squeaked, and his heart clenched at the sound. –I miss you!

  He closed his eyes, trying to fight back the tears that were threatening to spill over.

  –I miss you too, honeypie. How’s my little superhero doin’?

  –I’m not so little anymore. I’m four now!

  –Well, daddy’s always gonna think of you as his little girl.

  –I’m not little, and you didn’t come to my birthday party! she whined.

  –I know, sweetie, daddy’s real sorry about that. I just... It’s been hard with Grandpa and all. But I got ya something, alright?

  –Yay! Is it a pony?

  –Uh…well, it’s a surprise, but I know you’re gonna love it. A real superhero present!

  –Can I come and get it? Can I please come to stay with you, Daddy? I promise I’ll brush my teeth every night!

  Mark forced down a lump in his throat.

  –Yeah, sure honey. But not today. Next weekend, alright? Daddy needs to clean up the Fortress of Solitude first. Alright, champ?

  –Okay. Daddy, I made you a drawing! Guess what it is!

  –A superhero saving the day?

  Samantha giggled.

  –No it’s a unicorn! Unicorns are not real, but Ms. Wilson says they’re in our hearts! Can you guess what’s my favorite color is now?

  –Blue?

  –Pink! Just like yours!

  –Oh, that’s a pretty color. The best!

  –Daddy, she said, and he could almost feel her little arms wrapped around his neck. –I always think it’s you when there’s a knock at the door!

  He took a shuddering breath.

  –Sammy, we’ll have a superhero sleepover next weekend, alright?

  –Yay! Can’t wait!! I love you, Daddy!

  –I love you too, Peanut. Bye, sweetheart.

  He closed his eyes, allowing himself a few seconds before opening them again. Sarah’s voice came back on the line.

  –Mark, are you still there?

  –Y--yeah, I’m here.

  –I can hear you’re crying.

  –Uh-huh. It’s just... It’s fine.

  –Look, what if I pick you up tomorrow morning and we go to brunch? We can talk this out over pancakes, okay?

  He wiped his eyes.

  –I dunno…I look like shit.

  –Hey, it’s me. You could show up as the Hunchback of Notre Dame and...

  –Alright, alright, I got it. IHOP? 10 am?

  –Yes, and no backing out now! We’ll figure this out, okay? She paused. –Um, there’s… there’s something I need to tell you.

  –What?

  –Samantha is going to be a big sister. I’m pregnant.

  His chest tightened as if someone had knocked the wind out of him.

  –You…you’re kidding me.

  –No. I thought you should be the first to know before I tell everyone else. It’s a girl.

  –I... um. Congratulations, I reckon.

  –Aw, don’t sound so enthusiastic!

  –No, no, I mean it. I’m happy for you guys. Truly.

  –Thanks. Listen, I gotta go. Samantha’s about to smear her ice cream all over the place.

  –Alright, see you tomorrow at 10.

  –10 it is, stud muffin.

  –Yup...

  –We can still be civil, right? For Sammy’s sake?

  –Yeah, of course.

  –Thanks, Mark. Bye.

  She ended the call, and for a second, he kept the phone to his ear, like an idiot. Tomorrow at ten, he'd have to show up sober.