Page 35 of Warrior's Walk

“Man, you killed that Garth Brooks song, ‘Friends In Low Places,’” Mandy gushes.

“Yeah,killedis the appropriate word,” Pharo mumbles. “If either of you knuckleheads throw up in my truck, I’m gonna make you lick it up,” he warns.

Mandy finds that funny and busts out laughing, and when he snorts like a pig, he makes me laugh along with him. We’ve got tears in our eyes by the time Pharo pulls up in front of our building.

“You need help getting inside?” he asks.

“Nah, we’ll manner… manage,” Mandy assures him.

Pharo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

Not gonna lie, managing my crutches while sloppy drunk is difficult, and even more so with Mandy hanging on me like he’s helping. It takes two full minutes to get the key in my lock, but once we’re inside, we collapse on my couch.

“It looks really good in here,” Mandy observes, taking stock of my apartment. “You should’ve seen it when the last guy lived here.”

“Was he a slob?”

Mandy laughs. “Hell no, the place was bare-bones. He owned a mattress on the floor.”

I wait for him to finish, but he doesn’t say more. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he swears.

“Was he a crack addict?” I joke.

This time, his laugh is more sarcasm than humor. “Close, but no. He was addicted to pills and alcohol.”

“Damn, sounds like a real head case.” I put my hand over my stomach, trying to slow the sloshing waves of alcohol roiling in my gut.

“It was Nash.”

“Yeah, Nash said he’s an addict.”

“No,” Mandy clarifies. “The addictwasNash.” He says it slowly, enunciating each word.

“Nash was your neighbor?”

“Yup,” he says, popping in the p.

“You make ball buddies of all your neighbors?”

“Yup,” he repeats in the same tone.

“Damn, I thought I was special.”

His hand finds mine, and he squeezes. “You are; just don’t tell the other two. I tell them the same thing.”

Fucker is laughing at me. “I feel a little sick.”

He turns his head toward me. “Maybe you need another drink? Hair of the Dog!”

“I think I should switch to water.” I reach for my crutches, intending to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Hobbling to the kitchen is a struggle, and I’m nearly breaking a sweat as I pass the breakfast bar. A wave of nausea and dizziness hits me hard, and my legs buckle beneath me. My ass hits the ground, hard enough to knock the wind from me.

“You okay?” Mandy calls.

I make a miserable groaning sound. “I think I broke myself.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

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