Joey sat on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap and tried to figure out how the hell he’d ended up there.

            He knew, of course. He’d passed out in the kitchen and smashed his head and was ambulanced to the hospital. That was four days ago.

            But that’s not what he meant. He knew why he’d been sent to rehab. He just wanted to know how it happened. How his life got so fucked up.

            The room was drab and plain, with hotel art and commercial furniture discreetly bolted to the floor.

            “Must be my new roomie,” a man younger than Joey said as he bounced into the room.

            “Uh. Yeah. I guess. Didn’t take your bunk, did I?”

            “Nah. I don’t believe in that assigned bunk kind of rigamarole, you know?” He used air quotes around assigned. “Materialistic egocentricity, if you ask me.”

            Joey’s head hurt.

            “What’s the handle, dude?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “What’s your name? What do they call you? What nomenclature did your breeders assign to you?”

            Again with the air quotes.

            “Uh, Joey?” Joey said.

            “Medded up so bad you can’t remember shit, huh?”

            The roomie looked up at the tiled ceiling and smiled, remembering.

            “Whatcha in for?”

            “Alcoholism, I guess.”

            “We’re all here for that, dude,” he said. “But why are you a drunk?”

            “Nothing better to do?” Joey said.

            The roomie smiled and nodded approval.

            “Your underlying condition. You father hated you. Your mother fucked you. Your nose is too big. Your dick’s too small.”

            “My dick’s too big.”

            The roomie let out a cackling, hyena laugh he carried on for too long.

            “We’re going to get along great, Joey. I like you already.”

            “Thanks. That means a lot to me. Especially coming from you.”

            Cackle, more hyena.

            Later, after bed-check, Joey lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling.

            He was trying to decide if there was a pattern to the holes in the tiles.

            “Man,” the roomie said, sitting up abruptly. “I’d punch a baby for some pizza.”

            “No problem,” Joey said. “Probably wouldn’t remember, anyway.”

            Cackle. Hyena.

            “They say I’m psychotic, which is why I drink,” the roomie said in the darkness.

            “Hit the jackpot, didn’t you?” Joey said, worn out from listening to the guy all day.

            “They got it all wrong, though, you know? Fill us with meds and keep us zombie-stoned long enough for them to make some serious bank. That’s all. Not gonna work for me, I can tell you that, Jack.”

            “Not me. I’ll take me my Naltrexone for the whiskey cravings any time I can get it,” Joey said.

            “Ha! They try to give me eight pills a day. But I fool them and cheek ‘em.”

            “Outsmarted them, didn’t you.” It was a statement – flat – more than a question.

            “No reciprocity up here,” the roomie said, tapping the side of his head.

            “I’m gonna send you a pizza when I get out,” Joey said.

            Cackle. Hyena.