It’s 4:38 P.M., eight minutes after I usually go home, but now I’m rooting around under my chair cushion, double-checking my shirt pocket, hunting for an unmarked baggie of white bars, which I shouldn’t have left in my office, which I shouldn’t have forgotten to lock, which isn’t to demonize my clients but just to recognize that if you find yourself in a seventy-two-unit supportive housing facility for people living with HIV and with a history of homelessness, you are often in great need and without resources, and so it’s not inconceivable that you would look around an unlocked office for something to pawn at the QuickCash, especially if you’ve run out of luck doctor-shopping and are trying to buy your own benzos off your neighbor who price gouges, in which case, jackpot, free Xanax courtesy of the acting case-management supervisor. I’m feeling dizzy, flipping through the PHQ-9s and the rent checks on my desk that it’s not my job to process except the leasing and compliance man is always late. My boss is going to ask what I could have possibly been thinking leaving loose meds around, I’m going to get fired, so close to hitting my hours to become a LCSW and go private, maybe even start my own therapy practice, work for actual money with people who’ve never slept outside and don’t have to know what a viral load is and haven’t heard the word Narcan. I look up and see, out my window, beyond the hulking generator and the rusting fence, a bike-less Gracie with a bike helmet on, standing on the corner where everyone ashes into the bushes. She’s jawing at Edwin, loud enough for me to hear what I think is “Got your fuck buddy Cristina fired,” and then Edwin slaps Gracie not in her face but on her helmet and where the head goes the body follows. Gracie’s on the ground, and the Xanax are on the windowsill, I realize, which is a new lapse for me.