Stories The therapist and the drunk Game Over First it was the red Chopper – a thirteenth birthday gift, left rusting in the dew of someone else’s garden, and no matter how many times mum nagged, you never found a reason to go back for it. Then it was the mixing decks confiscated to dad’s attic, as though there could be an incentive. And later, in your twenties, it was the disused ambulance left blocking the drive of some mate of a mate who was waiting for you to get your license sorted and convert it. But this time, it was your wide-eyed, Mohican-haired boy on a day when the Police turned up with a social worker this time after mounting threats from dealers sick of waiting for you to repay them. And now it’s his childhood left rusting in the grass, a childhood you could be a part of if we even knew where you were. But here we all are, phones switched on, still waiting.