“How’s That Book Coming Along, Bri?”

We all took to watching Family Guy reruns in our rooms at the clinic. We’d pass each other in the cafeteria, stockpiling snacks.

Bags of white cheddar popcorn. Pudding cups. Ice cream sandwiches. Famous Amos cookies. Sun Chips. DIY Greek Yogurt Parfait kits.

During intermittent cigarette breaks, when we still waited for the sleep meds to kick in, we’d sit out on the volleyball court, a small ashtray between us all. R and G could be found bedazzling their vapes or their Bic lighters. We’d talk about Stewie and Brian. R would do his Bruce impersonation.

Drowsiness found us, and one by one we’d wander back to our rooms. We’d do a post-mortem a few hours later. The drowsiness came but didn’t signal true sleep. Many of us tossed and turned.

I ended up finding a sleep cocktail that ended up ensuring I stayed asleep throughout the night. I’d take it at a particular time, paranoid about the fever of insomnia as it wandered around the facility, stalking other patients. Group therapy was intense enough already without the added edge of sleeplessness.

Still, I’d wake up in the predawn, a malaise certain and true behind the hollows of my eyes. A pain I couldn’t outrun.

But there was comfort in being able to return to my room after a long day, a bag of white cheddar popcorn under my arm, a Seagram’s ginger ale in my hands, and the promise of an irreverent comedy to blunt that insidious pain.