Deon threw himself onto the mattress and nearly bounced off onto the floor. Considering that the bed itself was resting on the hardwood with no frame, it wouldn’t have been the worst outcome.

Still, his arms flailed wildly, pinwheeling for purchase. Once he was steady, he took hold of the nearest packed and not-shattered bong and hit it. As if summoned by the bubbling call, Jane entered the room. She had something in her hand.

“You all good bro?” She asked. “Sounded like you-uh-took a spill.”

Even if she said that, her eyes were on his weed. He ignored her. The hint probably lost on her, she cleared her throat and began to wiggle whatever was clutched in her yellow fingernails.

“Still waiting to hear back from Dusty about that… that thing…”

Deon looked up. Not because of her words; she was either lying or he didn’t care, but at the thing in her hand.

“Where’d you get that?” His question chopped through her vamping like a cane machete.

“This lil dude? He’s my buddy. You remember him?” She turned it toward him, revealing it to be a floppy stuffed basset hound.

Deon stood up. “Nah that’s Beem. He was mine.” He closed the distance in two steps.

“Woah bro. Step off my puppy.”

Deon saw this coming and held the bong up. Jane watched, understanding the silent trade being offered. After a moment, she took it. Her other hand dropped Beem to the filthy floor. She walked out of the room immediately.

Deon rescued the stuff puppy from the dirt and the hair and the toenail clipping, brushing him off.

“You’re good, man, I gotchu.”

The innocent, floppy ears seemed to hear him. He remembered many a night when this little dude gave him comfort while he was coming up. Remembered the Christmas moms had left him drooping out of the stocking for him to find.

Holding him there, in his ruined apartment, amidst his ruined life, made everything feel alright for just a second.