It was his first job in recovery — a part-time gardener for the local council. Most days meant strimming or basic maintenance, nothing fancy.

His name was Mark. It had been two years since he’d taken a drink or used drugs, and he was beginning to feel like part of society again.

Today was a strimming day. He moved along a grassy bank, tracing neat arcs around the lamp posts. The air was cold and clean, the grass slick with dew.

He stopped, set the strimmer down, unzipped his hi-vis vest and checked his phone. One hour to morning break. A message from someone at his AA group. He read it, put the phone away, picked up the orange strimmer and squeezed the trigger.

The machine whirred into life, slicing through weeds and wet grass. He was working around a lamp post when he saw it — a fat brown-orange slug. It tried to contract, curling tight, but too late. The spinning nylon cord caught it square.

Mark stopped the strimmer and rubbed the back of his neck. A small flock of sparrows squabbled in the hedge. He looked away, but a memory slid in uninvited: a man on the ground, his face caved in, a red spit bubble trembling on his lips.

The image vanished as quickly as it came. He looked back and saw another slug inching toward the shredded one. Gently, with the steel toe of his boot, he nudged it into the hedge.

When the shift ended, he caught the bus back to Mutley. The hill to his flat felt steeper today. He unpacked his bag, switched on the kettle, and started to cook — pasta with beef sauce and garlic bread.

He tore a piece of bread, dipped it in the sauce, chewed slowly. Upstairs, someone laughed; outside, students talked loudly on the pavement. His mind returned to the slug — that soft, wet body cowering from the strimmer, split open, spilling out its life.

He pushed the half-finished bowl away.

He sat on the sofa, the clock ticking, the steady hum of rush-hour traffic filling the room. He picked up his phone, scrolled, then called his sponsor.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said.

Dan answered, his voice calm, solid. He’d been sober twelve years, ran a plumbing business, talked often about breathwork and meditation.

“How’s it going, mate?”

“This’ll sound mental,” Mark said.

“No more mental than your share the other night.”

“Funny. I was at work, strimming, and I strimmed a slug.”

Dan laughed softly. “You strimmed a slug?”

“Yeah. Its guts came pouring out. And now I can’t stop thinking about the fucking thing.”

“So how did it make you feel?”

Mark got up and looked out the window. A man in a long coat walked a small brown dog past the hedge.

“Shit. Guilty. It made me remember something else.”

“What else?”

“You remember I told you about the student in North Road East?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“I remembered what we did to him. How we left him.”

There was silence for a few seconds, just the sound of Mark’s breath.

“You know what you’re feeling, mate?” Dan said finally.

“What?”

“Compassion.”

“Compassion?”

“Yeah. Look it up in the dictionary for the full meaning.”

Mark nodded. “I will. I’m gonna hit a meeting later. Feel like I need it.”

“Good man. Speak later.”

He ended the call and sat still for a while. The boiler hissed and whooshed as the heating came on. He picked up his phone again, searched compassion: a strong feeling of sympathy for people or animals who are suffering, combined with a desire to help them.

He read it twice. Then made himself a cup of tea.

After a moment’s pause, he scrolled through his contacts, found the number of a man who’d just come into recovery, and pressed call.

“Hello mate,” he said, his voice softer this time. “How’s it going?”