Vicious Cycle Read Online Free Page A

really worried about you.”
    “Then why won’t she let me come home?”
    “Because last time you were there, things didn’t go so well.” There was no point in mentioning that he’d given his father a black eye and pawned his mother’s jewelry.
    “I won’t stay here long.”
    “You can’t stay at all. They’re going to call the police. They gave me ten minutes to run you out.”
    Sighing, he reached for the lever to lower the footrest but couldn’t find it. She helped him lower it, and he sat up straighter. “All right, I’m going.”
    “Come to my car with me,” she said softly. “Your mom sent me some things for you. A warm coat and some gloves.”
    He rubbed his neglected beard. The corners of his mouth trembled, and he covered his eyes with a filthy hand.
    “J.B., your mom said the offer is still open for you to go to treatment. She’ll come and get you and take you herself.”
    “I don’t need treatment,” he slurred. “I don’t have a problem.” He pushed himself up with great effort and took a few steps, wobbling. “Haven’t eaten all day,” he said. “Got a few bucks?”
    She took his arm and walked him toward the door. “I can’t give you any money, J.B. But I have some food in the car.”
    As the glass doors slid open, the cold air blasted her. Sorrow crushed her heart at the thought of him being exiled into this weather. She wanted to take him home with her, but if his own parents couldn’t trust him, neither could she. Six months ago, after he’d beaten up his father, his mother had joined Barbara’s support group for parents of prodigal children. When she’d shown Barbara a picture, Barbara had recognized him as one of the homeless men who wandered into the furniture store now and then to escape the summer heat and the winter chill.
    He had choices, she reminded herself. He didn’t have to live on the streets. He could go to a shelter or a treatment center. If he worked, he could get his own place. He could even go home if he would just stop using.
    But J.B. wasn’t able or wasn’t willing to do what it took to live a functional life. She felt him shivering as they crossed the parking lot. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and popped open the trunk.
    The bag J.B.’s mother had sent sat next to the box of crackers and jar of peanut butter Barbara had bought for him the last time she went to the grocery store. “Here’s something to eat,” she said.
    He took the box of crackers but didn’t look that interested.
    She handed him the bag, and he pulled out a brand new parka with a warm hood. The one he had on wasn’t warm enough, and it didn’t look like it fit. She wondered where he’d gotten it.
    “Won’t be able to keep this long,” he said as he pulled it on over his other one.
    “Why not?”
    “Somebody’ll take it.” His breath steamed on the frosty air as he dug into the bag and pulled out some gloves, a scarf, and a new knit cap.
    Charlotte was mothering him the best she could. But Barbara couldn’t escape the irony — that her friend was dressing her son to survive, homeless, on the cold streets.
    What else could she do?
    Barbara had watched Charlotte, who had become one of her dearest friends, scurry around the house finding things she thought might help J.B. Charlotte was fighting her own battle with cancer. But that crisis was secondary to her worries about her only son.
    Even Charlotte’s “tough love” in leaving him on the streets was more for his benefit than for hers. Her hope was that the temporary homelessness would make him hit bottom. That he’d somehow come to his senses, check himself into treatment, and do what was necessary to change his life.
    But there was no sign of that happening yet.
    He zipped up the coat and wrapped the scarf around his neck, then dropped the crackers back into her trunk. “I’m not hungry.”
    “J.B., you said you hadn’t eaten. Take them. Eat.”
    “I just need a few bucks.”
    “I’m not giving