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The Intake
What happened to Cori?
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A crisp breeze stirred up the dust, carrying it as a wispy cloud from left to right across DJ’s view of the dull pink storefront in front of him. The parking lot was empty save for one dingy black compact parked in the last spot at the end of the row of empty shops.
Empty, save for the pink one at the end.
He stood in the middle of the lot, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dirty jeans, his down jacket breaking the cool northerly wind that always follows a front. The pistol in his waistband was cold against his back, and sweat beaded on his forehead.
No sign identified the business, and the pewter-tinted windows that lined the front, broken only by the single door in the middle, concealed what was inside.
It’s known as Pink House. And every addict in the county knows.
Pink House will take you in. Complete confidentiality and at no cost.
It is said that clients are taken to sober houses out of State, but no one is really sure.
DJ has never heard from anyone who went in.
Two weeks ago, Cori went in.
He rubbed the stubble on his sunken cheeks. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he…
