There aren't many of us in the detox wing—maybe a dozen, at various stages of withdrawal.
Some are like me, emerging from the worst of it with hollow eyes and shaking hands.
Others are just arriving, their terror palpable as they realize what they've signed up for.
I want to tell them it gets better.
I'm not sure if that's true yet, but I want it to be.
The facility is nice, just like Garrett said.
The common room has big windows that look out over the Pennsylvania mountains, still green with the last stubborn leaves of autumn.
There's a library with worn paperbacks and a TV that's always tuned to something soothing—nature documentaries, cooking shows, anything without violence or drama.
The staff brings us meals three times a day, and I'm starting to be able to keep them down.
I make myself eat even when I don't want to.
I make myself walk the halls even when my legs feel like jelly.
I make myself get up every morning and face the day, even when every cell in my body is begging me to give up.
One hour at a time.
That's what the counselors say.
Don't think about tomorrow.
Don't think about next week or next month or next year.
Just focus on getting through this hour.
Then the next one, then the next.
It's exhausting, living like that.
But it's also strangely freeing.
I don't have to worry about the future because the future doesn't exist yet.
All that exists is right now, this moment, this breath.
And right now, at this moment, I'm still here.
Still fighting. Still alive.
That has to count for something.
I'm allowed to make phone calls at the end of the second week.
One per day, fifteen minutes maximum.
The first time I pick up the phone, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely dial.
Garrett answers on the first ring.
"Vanna?" His voice is rough, like he hasn't been sleeping. Like he's been sitting by the phone waiting for me to call. "Baby, is that you?"
