KARTER. I used to sit at home and worry Jak would simply forget about me one day. Having Jak be a part of my life made such improvements to me and my manner of living, I was afraid it would certainly come to an end. I had never truly enjoyed living until I met Jak. With him in my life, I viewed the world before me through different eyes, and not my colored contact lenses.

Life with Jak was not too good to be true, because it was true. It was real. And it was mine. And I, of all people, believed I deserved what I was being served as a repeated meal by the hand of no other than God. I had never really believed in God until after I met Jak. And now, I don’t know how anyone could convince me God did not exist. Who could witness something as magical as the love Jak and I felt for one another, and believe it merely happened? Everything falling into place in the manner it had was far too complex to be anything but a plan by a being greater than man. I cleared my throat, set my coffee cup beside the newspaper, and closed my eyes.

God,

You keep Jak healthy, and I’ll keep him happy. I can promise you that. And I don’t make a promise if I don’t intend to die keeping it. And you can take that to the fucking bank.

Shit.

I probably shouldn’t have cussed, huh? My bad. Rewind. Okay, keep him healthy, and I’ll keep him happy. Pound it. Thanks for everything. Show me the way. Keep us safe out on the road. Shiny side up and all.

That’s all I got.

Karter out.

I opened my eyes and began sorting through the piles of mail which had collected for almost the entire time I had known Jak. He had immediately consumed my entire life, and although it was in a good way, it was also a bit overwhelming looking at it from an outsider’s point of view. As I flipped through the envelopes, one thing became immediately apparent.

The Sedgwick County Courthouse wanted to get ahold of me.

Desperately.

No less than six letters from the Sedgwick County Courthouse were amongst the mail I had inventoried. Frustrated, and assuming I had a warrant for my arrest, I grabbed my knife and cut the envelope open. I pulled the one-page letter from the envelope and read it.

Mrs. Wilson,

Pursuant to case number SG-2436-17A, please provide proof of ongoing aftercare. If such proof isn’t provided by August 28^th, 2014, actions will be taken by the court.

Be reminded breach of the agreement set forth in the above referenced case may include fines, imprisonment, or both.

Circumstances of the case and of the agreement are available from the Clerk of the Court by providing the case number.

Respectfully,

The Prosecutor’s Office

I tossed the letter on the counter.

Fuck.

I opened one of the other envelopes. The exact same letter with a different date was inside. I opened another. The same thing. Frustrated, I sat and stared at the newspaper I had just finished reading. I had been required by the court to attend no less than three Alcoholics Anonymous meetings as aftercare to my treatment. If not, I could be determined mentally incompetent by the court, and placed in an institution or in jail.

I shook my head, wrapped my hands around my coffee cup and thought of what my options were. I looked down at my cup and closed my eyes.

God,

Seriously?

I opened my eyes and shook my head. I glanced at the pile of mail and closed my eyes softly to close my prayer.

Karter out.

The August date had long since passed. Without a doubt in a short period of time, if not already, a warrant for my arrest would be issued. Frustrated, I picked up the phone and called the Prosecutor’s Office. After three different people and twenty minutes of begging, I had authorization to attend three meetings in three weeks.

Thank God.

No pun intended.

A call to the treatment center revealed what I already knew. There were daily morning and afternoon meetings, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Praise the Lord and pass the wicker basket. I decided to send Jak a text and tell him the truth. He understood the importance of what I had to do, and we decided to meet for a late lunch afterward. After a quick shower and a wet ponytail I was on the elevator.

I got off the elevator and looked at my new bike. It was a relief to have the old one long gone. It reminded me of my mother each time I thought about it. It was really the last thing that tied us together, and being rid of it would truly allow me to live a life free of any thoughts or attachments to her. I pulled my helmet on and fired up the bike. The rumble from the 1690 cc motor was totally different than the 1340. This bike was just like me.

Bad ass.

The ride through mid-morning traffic was without incident, and within fifteen minutes I was at the treatment center. After exchanging niceties with the counselor, I flopped down at the almost empty table, set my helmet on the floor, and looked around the room.

Three, including me.

I looked at my watch. It would be fifteen more minutes before the fun began. I rolled my eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and began counting the ceiling tiles. Generally, simple math would satisfy me when computing the size of a room. Considering my level of interest in being there, I decided I would count them individually to waste a little more time. When I reached 107, a familiar voice caught my attention.

“Nice to see you back, Karter.”

I looked down from the ceiling.

Bill the bullshitter.

“Mornin’ Bill,” I sighed.

I leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

Where was I?

Fuck, now I have to start over.

I saw the outline of Bill’s body as he got a cup of coffee and sat in the same seat he was sitting in the day we met for the first time. I considered the fact he was at my very first meeting, he didn’t attend any of the other meetings during my treatment, and now he had returned for my random assed unscheduled meeting. I began to wonder if he was following me. Not in a necessarily paranoid manner, but in a what the fuck is the deal with this dude manner. I stopped counting ceiling tiles at tile number 143, and shifted my gaze to Bill.

“So, Bill. Did you ever remember the name of the nineteen-year-old boy you slaughtered?”

He looked up from his cup of coffee and across the table. His eyes were filled with sorrow. Real sorrow. He nodded his head slowly and his lips began quiver as he started to speak.

“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s been a tough week for me. It’s why I’m here. I didn’t rightly want to end up drunk again, so I decided it’d be better to come here and talk about it,” he said softly.

I stared at him and began to feel sorry for him. But, without a name, it was still bullshit.

“What was his name?” I asked.

With a shaking hand, he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth and spoke over the top of the cup, “Well, I can’t remember the last name, but I’m pretty sure I got the first. It was an odd one, just took some thinking to remember it.”

Still bullshit, dude.

“And?” I asked, beginning to feel annoyed.

“Anderson. His first name was Anderson.”

An immediate pain developed in my chest. My eyes welled with tears. I didn’t immediately understand what was happening, but after a moment, I came to the realization Jak’s father’s name was Anderson.

In my very first meeting, Bill said he had the wreck on June 6^th, 1976.

Jak was born in 1976.

In January.

I pushed myself from the table and stood. My eyes were swollen and full of tears. I stared at Bill. Without speaking or remembering to grab my helmet, I stumbled to my bike, fired it up, and twisted the throttle as far as it would go.

And the wind against my face dried the many tears of pain from what I was afraid to be the truth.