A set of keys jingle in the lock as Maura opens the heavy door and moves into the front hall. Idly, she kicks at the mail that has collected on the hard wood. She contemplates the paper pile, regarding it with a sort of lazy interest. In the end, her laziness wins, and she moves past the mail, further into the small apartment.

Maura tosses her purse onto the small couch and drifts into the kitchen. She throws open the refrigerator and surveys its usual contents: ketchup, butter, relish. Grumbling, she closes the fridge and searches the cabinets. Empty. Of course.

She moves about the messy apartment, changing out of her work uniform into a large white t-shirt. She folds her work shirt and places it on the table. It's the one habit she shares with her mother. The kitchen can be filthy and the bathroom doesn't have to be scrubbed, but her clothes must be neat. Her clothing is the one organized thing among her disastrous apartment; it is the one organized thing among her disastrous life.

The apartment is a cluttered one bedroom filled with mismatching furniture and dirty dishes. Six months ago the furniture would have been littered with empty vodka bottles and an array of beer cans. Now, while the rooms are still not clean, they have been cleared of all the empties.

Maura collapses dramatically onto the unmade bed. For a moment she lays still, staring at the gray cracks that mark the white ceiling. They are getting bigger. They have grown so quick. Or maybe she has been here for too long.

Looking to her right, Maura stares at the calendar covered with red X marks. Six months. It's been six months since she last had a drink. It's been six months since she searched for a high. It's been six month since she left that life. It's been six months since she left him. And while she's been sleeping little and eating less, it's six months of sobriety.

Maura notices the flashing red light coming from her answering machine and stares. Slowly she reaches for the bedside table, as though she is exhausted by the simple task. She sits in silence for a moment, waiting for the first message to play.

Received 7:43am on Tuesday, January 12, 2009

"Maura-it's Kerri."

Maura's eyes grow large at the sound of her sister's voice.

"Listen, you need to call me. I don't want to leave this on your machine but...it-he called me. He..he lost it . I didn't give him your number, don't worry. Please, just call me?"

Maura flinches, turns away, and reaches blindly across the bed, searching for her abandoned pack of Marlboro Mediums.

To replay your message, press one.

Maura silences the machine and reaches for her lighter. She lights up and quickly inhales her poison. The room is silent as she smokes, contemplating her next move. As the cigarette diminishes, she sits. The early morning sunlight shines through the crack in her blinds and she puts her check out, burrowing deeper into her bed. As she rolls on her side, she reaches for the cordless phone, grabbing it roughly from its dock. Pulling the blankets over her head, she tries again to block the rays out. When her efforts prove useless,she hesitates, and then dials the familiar numbers. As the phone rings she prays for an answering machine, hoping to delay the exchange.

"Hello?" A man's voice replaces the ringing.

"Tom? Hi. It's...it's Maura."

"Maura? H-hey. It's been a while. Do you need Kerri?"

Maura knows he's not happy to hear from her. "Uhh yeah, I'm, just,uhm, returning her call." Maura listens as Tom moves through the house, searching for his wife.

"Ker it's Maura." He calls out to Kerri.

Seconds later, Maura hears movement.

"Maura, hi, I didn't think you'd be out of work yet. It's only 8."

Rolling her eyes, Maura responds, "Yea. I work the night shift. You know that. What do you need?" She realizes how impatient she sounds, but doesn't care.

"Can we talk?"

"I don't want to talk. I want to go to bed."

"He's so fucked up." The words are spoken softly.

Maura almost asks her sister to speak again before realizing what has been said.

"I don't care Kerri. It's done. I'm going to bed."

As she is about to replace the receiver, Maura hears Kerri's desperate voice.

"He just-He needs help, Maur."

For a moment there is silence. Both women sit, uniquely suspended in the moment, surveying the effect this phone call with have on their lives.

And then, two words.

"Call Trace."

"What, do you think you were my first choice? I'm lost here. We need your help. They need your help. He needs your help. Please?"

"I can't go home. I can't be around him...them...I, I can't do that."

"They know you're sober...well, Trace knows you're sober. I told him he needs to lay off when you're around." Kerri sighs again and then, "I know it's been a while, but he's still Justin."

"It's been almost seven months, Kerri. And him being 'just Justin' is the fucking problem."

"I promise. He just needs you to talk to him. It's like you just died...he doesn't even understand why you left...just come for a weekend?"

Groaning, Maura looks towards the clock at her side while she mentally takes note of the time. "Give me a few hours. Scott gets home at four, I'll ask him then."

"This has nothing to do with Scott. He needs your help."

"Listen, I need a few hours. I'll call you back." Maura slams the receiver onto the dock and collapses back into her tangled sheets.