In what might have been his gutsiest and most debatable effort yet, Josh had cleaned out the alcohol overnight, leaving Andy dry. ‘I’m no psychologist,’ he thought, ‘but I’m out of options. If this doesn’t work, I’m probably gonna have to walk away from him and carry on alone. Why would it still matter that we get along?’ Beyond the rationale, Josh was shaking. For one thing, it was completely unlike him to be this forceful. Then there was the fact that he had just angered the best killer he knew by starving him from the alcohol he needed. If he wasn’t in such a bad physical shape from substance abuse, Andy would have kicked his ass already. Instead, he was so unsteady that he kept falling back on his bed, swearing. Josh had never seen him so angry. He had never seen him so weak either. Andy’s reaction strengthened Josh’s resolve: he really was too pathetic to be left alone.

It took a good hour for Andy to feel confident enough to get up again. He used that time to threaten Josh in every way he possibly could, but that was pretty ineffective coming from such a harmless old man. Josh still held on tightly to the kitchen knife he was using to chop vegetables, just in case. The door wasn’t that far away.

Once he was up and walking at a slow pace, Andy changed his strategy. He wasn’t very impressive at the moment, and the idea that Josh of all people could probably take him on as he was now was enough to stop him from trying something. He crept near, trying to reason with him.

“OK, Josh, I’m sorry, you just made me so angry,” he said. “It’s been a while since I was so mad, right?”

You bet. Over the years they had worked together, no matter what the situation was, Andy had always managed to keep his cool. That was part of the reason why Josh was expecting him to be the moderating one while he could run around enthusiastically. Well, that dynamic has changed.

“You know, I didn’t mean any of the things I said, but I really need a drink,” said Andy. “We talked about my drinking just the other day, was it yesterday? The day before?”

“That was a week ago,” said Josh.

“OK, well, I’ve had some trouble remembering things recently, with the alcohol and all that. So, I said I would stop and I will,” he said, “but you can’t expect me to get better overnight, right? I’ll stop gradually, just give me one of the bottles so I can grab one drink. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Josh put down his knife and looked at Andy. “Andy? I think you’re lying to get booze. You’re usually an upstanding person, someone I really look up to. You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna make you turn back into that person you usually are, because right now, you’re just full of shit.”

Andy backed off a bit, spooked by the resolution Josh showed. “OK, I was just trying to be nice here, you don’t have to be such an ass about it. The bottles are mine, right? I just need to know where you store them, I need to know they’re safe. If you won’t tell me, I’ll look, but we have no reason to waste time like that.”

“You won’t find them,” said Josh. “I threw them away.”

Andy felt anger scorch him again, like he was burning from the inside out. “You threw away my bottles? What gives you the fucking right to do that, you… you thief!”

Josh didn’t move and that infuriated Andy further. He spent half an hour trying to push and pull, alternatively threatening then begging Josh, to no avail. The kid was a rock. Andy felt incredibly disoriented: the whole power dynamic had shifted against him and there was no way to get it back. How was he standing so firm? Was that guy opposing him really the same old Josh?

He decided to go for a walk and grabbed his coat from where is was hanging. This day was the worst, but at least it was a week day: most of the shops were open and the pub too. The thing with the stolen bottles would get answered in due time. For now, there was nothing wrong with retreating and grabbing a drink somewhere without Josh playing drinking police. That would get him in the mood to think. A whisky, maybe, as the French imported gin was disgusting. It usually didn’t matter much after a few glasses, but he needed a treat. He patted the coat pocket to check that his purse was there and felt nothing. He started thinking of all the places he could have left it. On the couch? Maybe at the pub? That would be a pain. A thought came to him, and he slowly raised his eyes to look at Josh. No way.

Josh was done cooking. He had let the meal simmer down, rested his lower back against the kitchen counter, crossed his arms and looked at Andy getting ready to leave. “I thought I was being pretty clear,” said Josh, “you’re not drinking again, I made sure of that.”

That was the last straw. Strangely, Andy, instead of being sent into a murderous mood, reacted like his strings had been cut off. He didn’t have the strength for a confrontation. Sitting back on his bed, he wept. He cried for the harshness of the world and the pity of his own condition. Mostly, he cried for all the stuff he had settled with alcohol until now. That took a while.

When he felt a little less upset, lunch was ready. They ate in silence. Josh was telling himself he had to be strong, but he felt like a monster for making his old pal hurt and cry. Andy was in the kind of haze you only get in between tears. He was far from being done crying.

That was the story of how Andy got a little bit better. As the week went on, he was autonomous again and Josh went back to work. Andy soon joined the workplace too, helping out the landlord, Mr. Lefèvre who needed his other warehouse cleared up. It was redemption for Andy to sweat and push wheelbarrows everyday, even if his age and recovery stage didn’t allow him to do it all day.

It would have been foolish to think he was out of the woods already, still he fared better than he previously had, at least according to Josh. He wasn’t the old Andy either: this one was surprisingly emotional, easily getting upset over small things, easily pausing to admire something beautiful. A new man.

A month had gone by. The warehouse was all cleaned up, and Josh had spent enough time entertaining Léa that he had managed to learn a few French sentences, one of which meant ‘you’re such a loser’. One day, they counted their money and realized they had saved up enough to repair the van.