And for the first time in a decade, Harley Dean cries. Not the performative tears of a rock star at an award show. Real, ugly, silent sobs, drowned out by the hiss of the frigid pipe.

Harley looks at the shower again. The cold water still sprays. Thin. Relentless. Honest.

No hot water, Harley Dean.

He stands up, removes his leather jacket for the first time in what feels like months, and hangs it on the back of the bathroom door. He pulls off his shirt. His torso is soft, covered in faded tattoos that have blurred like old memories.

He stares into the mirror now. He has no choice.

He stumbles to the bathroom, flips the light switch. The fluorescent bulb hums and flickers, casting his face in sickly intervals. He avoids his reflection. He always avoids the reflection.

He picks up the phone on the nightstand—the landline, because his cell was cut off two months ago. He dials a number from memory. It rings three times.