They'd done this before. More than once. Sitting in the beat-up old Ford outside the community center, Hunter did his best not to remember the exact number of times his mom had decided today was the day she was going to stop, kissed his head, cried a bit, and asked if he could drop her off at a meeting. Hunter always nodded, squeezed her hands and shared the most supportive words he could find, but lately, it was getting harder. For more than half his life he'd watched her fall off the wagon. Things would be good for a while. She'd be better for a week, two, a month, and then...
Square one.
He tried not to be pissed about the fact she couldn't even drive herself places any more because her license had been suspended for driving drunk. He tried not to be pissed about the fact that if she tried it again, there would probably be jail time involved. He tried not to be pissed about the fact she'd been through so many jobs, he'd lost count. She was his mother. A good, loving woman who tried to look after him and do what was best for him. She was just ill. Lots of people got ill. Sometimes, you could clear it up with medicine, sometimes it took a long battle with surgeries and therapies and whatever else Gotham's finest medical staff offered. Sometimes, you didn't get better. Maybe the people who said getting better was in her control were right, but for Hunter, it wasn't that simple, no matter how much he wanted it to be.
He slammed the door shut when he got out of the car. The rust in the hinges creaked unpleasantly. He'd have to get that looked at. Clawson was usually pretty good at not asking questions when you paid with cash. No matter how much he stole, no matter how much weed he sold, it always came back to weighing up rent versus water and electricity versus the car versus food versus art supplies for school. There were people with their heads in the clouds who convinced themselves that one day, they wouldn't have to live like this, but Hunter had been in Gotham long enough not to question it any more. He'd been keeping himself and his mom alive since he was twelve.
The yellow lights slipped out through the community center windows, casting an eerie glow through the blackness of the night. This was Coral. There was a decent chance someone would want to start something with him over a pack of cigarettes or because he was brown and they were white. He had made peace with those things, too. Hunter pulled the packet of Marlboros out of his pocket, just about getting it lit before a girl in a wheelchair made her way out through the doors.
