Francisco has always been impetuous. He called me tonight from the Greyhound Station.
“I am going to L.A. Do you want to come down here and say goodbye?”
The unstated implication was that I would buy him the ticket.
I say: “I think it is a mistake for you to go. You are unprepared, have no money, no job, no place to stay. You will get in trouble. What about your drug treatment program? You have the appointment to start next Wednesday. No, I am not coming down.”
“Then I will hitch hike,” he replies. This time he apparently listens to me because he shows up at the house an hour later.
His face is gaunt from a year of meth use.