Page 14

Drake

A middle-aged woman at the front desk with tight curls is blinking up at me, clearly confused after I told her what I’m here for.

“So, let me get this straight: a year ago, we arrested you. There was a napkin in your jacket pocket and you think it dropped out here and we might still have it?”

I grimace. “That, uh, sums it up.”

“Right,” she says, eyeing me like I might be a drunk still.

“It had a girl’s number on it,” I tell her. “We had a really great night.”

When I see her eyes widen, I jump to explain, “It’s not, y’know, like that. We just talked and danced and, well, she was different.”

“Uh huh.”

When I see I’m not getting anywhere with her, I pull out a hundred dollar bill—Carlos’s idea, which suddenly feels way more sketchy in a government building—and slide it across the counter like I’m in a mob movie.

“Please? Just check for me.”

Her eyes look like they’re going to pop out of her skull when she looks at the bill.

“Sure thing,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

“No rush,” I call out. “Take your time.”

She gives me a side-eye and I attempt to give her a charming smile, but I’m sure I look deranged right now. Because I really want that phone number. I fidget at the front desk while I wait for her, answering a few of my mom’s worried texts:

— Are you eating? (Yes.)

— Are you going to church? (Sometimes.)

— Have you talked to your father? (Hard pass.)

And then I fire off a couple texts to Lamar, my rehab counselor, who checks in with me periodically. One hundred and sixty days sober and I’m not going back. I even have time to text Carlos that I’m at the police station before the receptionist comes back.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t able to locate your napkin,” she says napkin like I had her searching for a dirty one—rather than the single most important napkin in all of South Florida.

“Thanks for checking,” I tell her. She makes a gesture like she’s going to give my money back, but I raise my hand and tell her to keep it.

I don’t need it.