I have to keep moving all the time. If anyone sees me slow down or rest, they’ll know. They’ll recognize that something is off and start to ask questions. If they ask questions, I’m just going to crumble and I’ll have to run again.

I get the sous chef to chop some carrots. The stew is boiling and I turn down the heat. Our lunch rush is in an hour and the timing has to be perfect.

The smell of croutons toasting draws me to the oven. I ask the baker the normal questions. He doesn’t make eye contact. I wonder if he can smell me. He has to, I must reek with booze.

I nod as he answers the questions; then, I return to the sous. She nearly has the carrots completely diced and I nod, regarding her piles. Without prompting, she gathers them together and takes them to the stew to drop them in. My pulse is pounding in my ears.

The sous and I have worked together for four years. When she started my drinking wasn’t like this. It was manageable; I hardly had blackouts.

We’ve never socialized; I don’t drink with others. I drink by myself, in my room, every night.

I’m struck from behind and a terrible crash is all around me. Broken glass, ceramics, and I’m screaming, I’m shouting, people are pulling me out of the kitchen, bringing me glasses of water, I’m crying.

The dishwasher bumped into me carrying plates. That’s all that happened.

The paramedics are examining me. I go with them and climb into the ambulance.