The November sun rose firing the mist ascendant upon the Piedmont. I awoke in my faded red '87 Nova feeling sick from drinking. I was parked in the narrow, hardscrabble parking lot of Black Stump Studios, the rehearsal space.



It was my ninth night sleeping in my car's reclined bucket seat and two months since I'd left my old life.



I viewed my breath rising toward the pilly gray upholstery of the vehicle's ceiling. The gold sunlight streamed through the smudged side windows and over my battered jeans jacket.



I reclined the bucket seat upward and drew in toward myself, burying my nose beneath the smoke-smelling the found green flannel shirt I'd begun wearing as liner since the weather had broken cold, smelling my filthy blue undershirt.



I had a wool overcoat stored at the self-storage cubicle I shared in Sandy Springs, and I'd go dig it out today. First I'd have to get gasoline for the car.



Before that I'd need coffee.



I wondered how much money I had left on me.