The meeting’s attendees shuffled down the twelve steps to the entrance of the church basement; their morning greetings woke Skip who was bundled at the base of the stairs. Warm air rose through the open doors, drawing him inside.
He knew he smelled.
Wiping his dirty, grimy hands on his dirty, grimy coat he plucked a donut from the table, poured a cup of Joe. He hesitated, cursed before taking a dollar from the donation basket.
He’d been here before—so many times. He glanced at the door, then an empty seat.
Was he ready? Maybe for an hour, maybe longer.