Hopsworth's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Hopsworth stood at the edge of the gravel lot and watched his drive-in come back to life. Speakers crackled. Headlights swept the screen. He had built this place the same way he built everything else — every part doing its quiet job, feeding the next. Tonight the cars rolled in, and somewhere across town, his rehab beds waited. Then he noticed the beer. Cases of it, cold and open, passing hand to hand between strangers who hadn't paid him a cent. He walked toward the stack. Cardboard towers of bottles leaned against a truck bed. Labels he did not own. Brands he had not approved. A man pressed a wet bottle into a teenager's hand and laughed. Hopsworth picked up one of the cups scattered on a folding table. His own design. The hotline number for his rehab center stared back at him in pink ink. Someone had been clever. Someone had piggybacked on his night, pouring rival beer through his crowd while his cups did the quiet recruiting. He felt the small, cold sting of being outplayed. Across town, the rehab center's glass doors glowed warm and waiting. Hopsworth turned back to the lot and made his decision. He pulled out his phone and called the county tip line himself. If the beer wasn't his, it would be gone by midnight — and every drinker here would still be holding his number.