Knitting doesn’t cure the hopelessness. It only distracts. He never tells anyone. About either. He sleeps with the afghan—his finest work—and every morning stuffs it in the closet with his other creations. Green mittens. A red toboggan.

Tonight’s drive to the liquor store is particularly cold. He rubs a circle on the fogged windshield with the goofy green mitten. He leaves the car running and the mittens in the passenger seat. He walks into the same old liquor store, down the same old aisle, grabs the same old bottle, and pays the same old man. Back in the car the mittens are gone. He looks around the parking lot. Empty.

The next night he pulls into the liquor store, his eyes red like the ridiculous toboggan. He tosses it in the backseat. After paying he hurries back outside and throws open the back door. The toboggan is gone.

The third night he sits idling in the parking lot, warm underneath the afghan. He folds it neatly, placing it in the passenger seat next to last nights unopened bottle. He walks into the liquor store. He can’t wait to get back home and finish the sweater.