Jack and I were in a full-sized Dodge truck—he “borrowed” it from his brother for the weekend. Owen was asleep in the back seat, sucking on his two left fingers. Jack drove into the back alley behind the Pick-n-Pull and parked next to a blue Jetta that hadn’t been washed in a year.

“Won’t take me two minutes to jimmy the lock,” Jack said.

Jack and I settled into the back seat of the Jetta and smoked a quick bowl—he fell asleep first, and I followed soon after, using his beefy arm as a pillow.

Owen woke up an hour later having to go to the bathroom, but he couldn’t find us. And God help us, we left the truck unlocked—a thought that haunts me to this day. What if Owen had wandered out of the truck and gotten kidnapped, or hit by a car, or worse?

And then there’s the guilt, wondering how scared Owen must have been, not being able to find me. How much pain must he have been in, having to go to the bathroom and not knowing where I was? I thank God every day that he didn’t get out of that truck.

The emotional damage I did to him that night—the overwhelming fear he must have felt—still gives me nightmares. When I first checked into Harbor House I had screaming nightmares about that every single night.