First, I drank a few gallons of water so I wouldn’t have a hangover. Then I lay on the couch trying to trick myself into dozing. Posing like a sleeper: shoes off, body scrunched onto the cushions, eyes closed, mouth open, a pillow under my narrow head, but my body wouldn’t buy it, and after an hour I sat up. What would I do with all this time? I felt so nervous that I could hardly sit down. By dawn, I’m sorry to say, I’d torn my cabin apart trying to find my dope.But now I couldn’t find the damn things! I’d hidden them too well. I’d wrapped them in tin foil, I remembered that much, then thrown the tin foil into a Ziploc bag. But what had I done after that? I checked behind the toilet again. In the butter dish. The oven. I’d started out moving my stash every week, but eventually I only needed to relocate it once a month. The Library’s work became my habit instead.For all I knew, I’d buried the stuff outside over the summer, maybe next to my front steps. If so, I wouldn’t be able to dig it out of the frozen earth now.
