Zico stopped outside, lighting a cigarette with a flic of his bic. He inhaled the heat and smoke deeply, eyes darting around the street; it was fifteen minutes before the start of the support meeting and it was cold. He hated the cold, hated winter, and hated having to go to meetings that did little for him but get him out of jail time. His breath rose frostily in front of him as he exhaled the chemicals that would probably kill him one day.
Ahead, he saw the meeting’s sponser, a woman far too chipper to be around people that had reached the end of their limits. He turned around, huddled under his jacket and sweater, and noticed someone else coming from the other direction, a face he hadn’t seen here before.