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buzz comes mostly from the alcohol, so you head home
around two, the sick-sweet smell of the smoke still
clinging to your hair and shirt.

You make sure to skip the creaky steps on the stairs
that lead up to the flat, locking the hall door behind you.
The plan is to put your clothes with the rest of the
laundry, go to bed and wake up in a few hours sober, and
do it again sometime next week, only then it'll be better.

This time, though, when you pass the kitchen on the
way to your room, Da's sitting at the table at past two in
the morning, hands folded neatly front of him like he's at
his desk waiting to conference with a student. You
hesitate - a mistake, you realize; a mistake.

"Teddy," he says, and you consider not acknowledging
him, except for the fact that he's waited up and caught
you and you're squarely screwed.

"Da," you say right back, not approaching the table.

"We need to discuss this." His voice is quiet, serious.

"Drugs are bad, Da; I know. Can I just go to bed?"

"No."

"Da, I want to go to bed." You're whining, and you
usually win, but there's something in the set of your Da's
shoulders that makes you think that you might actually
be losing this one.

He doesn't say anything, just looks at you, fixes you
with the sort of stare he reserves for students he's
"disappointed" with, or for when you're really in trouble,
not that it's ever truly been effective before. But it works

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