His sight followed his trail of piss down into the toilet. Blood in the bowl. Never a good sign. He sighed, finished, zipped up, and went to flush, then didn’t. Maybe it would serve the next visitor here as a warning.

At the sink, he washed his hands and looked in the mirror. Four days of stubble, lip swollen, eyes shot through with cracks of blood, and a bruise of deep-purple blood pooling under his cheek. Looking close, he could just about see the pattern of knuckles from the ugly customer last night.

When was he going to learn that he couldn’t live night to night, drinking and fighting? The friends he had gone out drinking with had evaporated, and now it was just him. Days in demo, nights talking to strangers, hitting on strangers, fighting with strangers.

He wanted to change. He wanted to strip his torn, blood-dirty clothes from him and run from the gas station bathroom naked, a new man reborn. He also wanted to not go to jail, so that was out.

He washed his face instead and made a resolution: Tonight, he’d only take enough cash for three drinks. One little rebirth at a time.