Horn P.O.V

The crisp morning air feels nice as I walk to work. I tie my hair back in a loose ponytail as I walk. The supermarket where I work isn't very far from my apartment. I get there within about fifteen minutes.

As soon as I walk through the automatic doors my boss glares at me. He's a short and plump man with a temper that's hotter than the store on a hot summer day.

"Ollie, you're late," he says.

On my application, it says my name is Oliver. My boss knows that. I haven't a clue as to why he made some stupid nickname for me.

"Sorry, Sir. I didn't sleep well last night," I mumble while clocking in for my shift.

"That doesn't change the fact that you have a job to do. You have to be here on time," he snaps.

"Calm yourself, Gary. You'll give yourself a nosebleed," I mutter while walking away. Luckily, I was out of his hearing range, otherwise, I might have lost my job.

I go about, stocking shelves and checking out customers. The job has never been something I wanted to do with my life. It's just something I do while I attend a few college classes. It seems like a waste of money and I've been considering dropping out. School never was for me.

I carry several boxes of canned goods throughout the store. I set them down and unpack them, setting cans in their proper places while trying to avoid getting in the way of the few regular customers.

Someone puts their arm around my shoulder and pulls me deeper into the aisle. I already know who it is. He's one of my regulars.

"Do you have the stuff?" he asks in a hushed tone, his voice full of need.

"Reggie, dude, I've told you a million times that I can't deal while I'm at work," I growl through my teeth. "Just call me later."

"No, no. The government listens! That's how they find us!" he rambles on about the government for a few moments.

His paranoia makes me feel bad for him. Reggie always mumbles about being watched by the government. He comes to me about once a week for weed. That's all I sell. God knows who else he goes to for the rest of his poison. Normally, since I feel bad for him, I cut the price down a bit. He's spending enough as it is.

"Text me later, okay Reggie? I have to get back to work," I tell him before patting his shoulder.

Reggie quickly nods and rubs his hands as he walks out. I glance to make sure he gets out okay, only to notice my boss glare at him. My boss never cared for Reggie. He practically despises his presence in the store.

I sigh as I return to my job of stocking shelves. Right now, the younger employees are in the break room, most likely talking about who's sleeping with who, who's high, and who's knocked-up. That's all high school kids ever talk about nowadays.

Once I'm done with several more boxes I head into the break room for a cup of coffee. I didn't have time to make any before I left home. It isn't as good, but it's better than nothing.

"Hey, Oliver," one of the high school boys says.

They normally don't talk to me unless they want me to pick up a shift so they can skip. They're probably the same way with their classes.

"What do you want?" I ask before taking a long swallow of my coffee.

He looks around the room before leaning close. "I heard you deal drugs," he says with a sly grin.

"Who'd you hear that from?" I scoff with a laugh.

The kid rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "From the old geezer who hangs around the dumpster. He says you sell it to him."

It's all too clear that the kid is referring to Reggie. He always rambled a bit too loudly around others. Unfortunately, he is a close client and I prefer not to deal with punk kids like this one.

"And you chose to believe him?"

The kid gets a bit red in the face. It's obvious that I'm irritating him. He seems like the type of stuck-up kid who throws a tantrum when he doesn't get what he wants.

"Come on! I have money!" he whines.

I roll my eyes and continue to drink my coffee. I don't sell to kids. I've grown up around more than weed and I've seen what it does to people. Weed isn't that bad. That's why I smoke it and deal it. People don't overdose on pot.

"Go sneak some of mommy's Vicodin," I say in a mocking tone before leaving the break room.

I don't even have to look back to know that the kid is furious. If he wants weed he'll have to go to someone else. He won't be getting a gram from me. I don't sell to kids because eventually the high won't be as strong and they'll be asking me if I sell anything else. When I say no, they'll go to someone else and ruin their life. As much as I don't like them, I don't want them to fall into this dark hole. It's more than they can handle.

Once I finish my shift, I head out back to see Reggie. He's hanging out by the dumpster, using a lighter to heat a spoon. He's about to shoot up some heroin. It hurts to see him do harder drugs because it only makes him worse.

"Hey, Reggie," I say softly as he sticks the needle in his arm. It's not an easy sight.

"Hey," he sputters out, injecting the poison into his veins.

"Do me a favor, Reggie. Don't tell the kids that I sell you weed, okay?"

Reggie nods quickly, although I doubt he'll remember by the end of the night. I take a plastic bag out of my pocket. I pre-roll Reggie's joints because his hands shake and he has trouble doing it himself. I'm also one of the only dealers he knows that don't lace them with some other drug.

I hand him the bag and pat his shoulder. He goes for the little money he has, but I stop him.

"It's fine, keep it."

I may be involved in the drug business, but I've known Reggie since I was a kid. My parents would deal with him all the time. He was less of a wreck, but he's still Reggie. He's not a bad guy.