Our days of usual are not so commonplace for you.
Let me explain: There’s a shell of the Devil’s car out there, burnt out from the flames. He lent it to a mortal, forgetting to tell him it wasn’t made fireproof.
The recovered addicts at 3am, doing whatever recovered addicts do at 3am, happened to meander away as it slingshot itself into their house. Pity the Devil, who thought his car might make them fall from God in His presence. The way the newspapers tell it, they owe God for their lives. (And I want to know, who’s words are these? The addicts, the newspapers, or the church who lost the house but not the addicts?)
Halfway into the living room of the halfway house, the only addict ever saved this dad pulled him from the fiery car. The newspapers didn’t say, so I’m not sure if my dad was drunk, down on pills, or had just fallen asleep at the wheel.
I’d ask the man in the car about it, but he’s dead. The third anniversary is coming of not being afraid he’ll crash another car, become addicted again, or die.