I went to visit my father in the rehab place. It was a little weird, a little bit of a prison vibe. I brought him his slippers (they take laced shoes and belts) and two cartons of cigarettes, which the tech had to inspect before handing them back. The visiting area was small, with just a few tables. There's one enclosed outdoor atrium where they can smoke. Lighters are verboten, however; instead there's a little device attached to the wall where you insert the cigarette and push a little button, kind of like an old-style car lighter except enclosed. A nicotine-fit glory hole, if you will.
They had my father drugged with something, so while he was compos mentis, he lacked a lot of fine motor skills and he seemed extremely tired. He didn't look in great shape physically, but the nurses said a doctor was coming in later that day. We talked for a while to a not too old black woman in a wheelchair who said she got shot at the age of 32 and had been on crack every since. It was her sixteenth day at the center and she was pretty coherent. She said she was tired of being high and broke and she was going to be clean from now on. She told me she was keeping an eye out for my dad, giving him cigarettes and making him eat. When a crack addict in a wheelchair tells you that you're too skinny, it's time you took a good hard long look at yourself.