It wasn’t long into the quiet November night that the craving suddenly and inexplicably struck. Cole had been passed out, feet dangling over the edge of his childhood bed, when he awoke with a start. His head was throbbing and the thin sheets around him were soaked through with sweat.

He jumped out of bed and regarded the dark space around him. In his stupor, he’d briefly forgotten where he was. Through the gloom, he could make out shapes of old toys and posters on the dressers around him. Slowly, he gathered his bearings, hand to his head to nullify the pain.

He needed a cigarette.

His legs creaked in harmony with the floorboards as he tiptoed from the bedroom and made his way down a narrow hallway. He nearly had to shimmy through to keep from bumping into thick wooden framed photos that damn near covered the entirety of the walls. He shook his head, immediately regretting it as the pain increased. His mother had always taken too many pictures.

He slunk down a set of wooden stairs to a ground floor hallway, chuckling silently at monstrous snores emanating from the den to his right. Dad had fallen asleep in the recliner again, his fortissimo snores drowning out the latest HBO rerun on the television. Of all the things he thought he’d miss when he left home for college six years ago, it surprised him just how comforting it was to hear those god-awful snores again. Nighttime was too quiet in his desolate apartment, especially after Sarah had left.

This thought, too, he pushed out of his aching head as he deftly made his way into the kitchen. A white light under the microwave cast a dim glow around the dark countertops, barely illuminating a hanging coat rack just beside the backyard door at the far end of the tiled room.

The residual smell of Thanksgiving dinner lingered in the kitchen, having been cleaned up just hours ago. The odor was strangely nauseating, compounding his throbbing sinuses. His throat itched and his head pounded as he rushed to grab his heavy coat from the rack by the back door.

As he stepped out into the porch-lit back deck, the calm winter air tickled his nose. He swung the coat over his body before reaching into his front pocket, feeling around for his Marlboro reds.

Fuck. He whisked his hand through the pocket four or five times in a state of panic. His lighter was in his hand, but nothing but empty space surrounded it. “Fuck!” he said again, this time aloud.

“Your grandpa used to smoke these.”

Cole nearly jumped out of his skin at the soft voice from across the deck. There, dangling off the wooden railing in a frail set of hands, were his cigarettes. The woman carrying them sat in her baby blue nightgown and puffer coat, breath fogging out of her mouth as she regarded them coolly.

“Jesus, Mom. What are you doing out here?” He physically relaxed, but his heart still raced anxiously. He wasn’t as scared of her sudden appearance as he was the way she looked at the little red and white box in her hand. You are an adult. You can smoke without worrying about upsetting your mommy.

He walked up to the railing beside her, facing the same direction into the back field but eyeing the cigarettes in her hand. It was silent for too long before he decided to speak up.

“I really don’t like it when you look through my things, Mom.”

The older woman chuckled, her eyes locked on something in the darkness ahead of them. She turned the box wearily in her hands.

“Well, how else am I supposed to know how my son is doing? It’s not like he ever calls to tell me. Did you know that tonight is the first time in eight months that we have seen each other face to face?” She turned to look up at him. “Cigarettes? Really?”

Cole laughed bitterly. “I could be doing a lot worse, Mom.” He knew this would happen eventually. His mom watched too many hallmark dramas. To her, everything seemed to be life or death.

He haphazardly reached his arm out to grab the pack, but she recoiled, holding them close to her chest. He clenched his jaw but remained quiet, placing his hand back on the railing. He couldn’t sit still, fingers constantly drumming on wood. It was cold. The kind of cold he could only chase away with a drag of that acrid tobacco.

“Your father went to get that growth checked out a couple weeks ago. Dr. Rhodes told us to brace for any possibility. Which probably means the cancer is back.”

Cole sighed irritably.

“I know.”

“How would you know? You never call.”

“Nana told me.”

“Oh. So you’re calling Nana?”

“She called me.”

She grunted in response, shaking her head lightly.

“Why are you trying to guilt me with this? If you have news you need me to hear, call me with it. Don’t neglect to tell me and use it as ammunition to complain about me not calling. That’s manipulative.”

They sat there for minutes, his agitation increasing every second. Off in the distance, a coyote yipped, followed by a few more further away.

“Look, can I have my cigarettes back? I bought them.” It was a pitiful argument, he knew. But the pounding in his head was getting to be too much. Surprisingly, she relented, setting them down on the banister before him.

Probably too quickly, he pulled out a stick and lit up the end, puffing smoke into the night air. This prompted another head shake from her as she ground her teeth, still staring into the dark. Immediately, the itch was satiated, and he visibly relaxed. His head was still pounding.

“I don’t know what we did wrong with you. We gave you the best life we could. We kept you away from those nasty things. But here you are now: going silent for months on end, drinking and smoking with those new terrible friends of yours. I just don’t get it.”

He took another long drag on his cigarette, watching the smoke fly above and over the house behind him. He was tired of this conversation. Tired of feeling like he had to defend himself to his own mother.

“Well, Mom, of course I’m not the same ignorant little kid you raised. Things change. People change. Sure, I’m sorry I don’t call so much. I can make more of an effort there. But maybe I don’t come around so much because I don’t like the way you look at me.” That last line came out more bitter than he’d intended, but his irritation with her had grown the past three days. Not even satisfying his craving could cure it now.

“We’ve all got our problems, including you.” He thought of the upstairs hallway, littered with old pictures. “Let me grow up. Let me be addicted to cigarettes. Yeah, I’m not so clueless that I don’t realize that’s what this is. If I’m gonna go down the same path that Grandpa did, then that’s what I’m gonna do. All I ask is that you look at me like a person.” He erupted into a coughing fit, his throat raking itself in pain as phlegm dislodged itself from his chest.

When the coughing was over, his mother removed herself from the railing, walking towards the door behind him. He wiped his mouth, mildly embarrassed.

“You smell like Grandpa.” With that, the door closed silently, leaving Cole in the dim porch light. His eyes watered from the coughing. He tossed the short white stub into the cold night, shaking his head.

“Fucking child,” He muttered to no one. Shakily, he fiddled with the carton in front of him, lifting another cigarette to his mouth.