When your detox has no money and no way to get money, one of two things must happen: either the bosses take pay cuts to fund the thing, or the thing gets whittled away to virtually nothing. You'll never guess, in a hundred trillion years, which option my company chose.
Give up? So did the company. The few scraps of state funding that didn't go into management's pockets were allocated to keeping the detox program alive, but only in the strictest "persistent vegetative state" kind of way. The patients had hard beds that we probably only had because the local prison was overstocked, scratchy pajamas that at least guaranteed nobody tried to take them home, plastic chairs that made for only slightly better seating arrangements than the milk crates they replaced, and ... that's it. The rec room had a whiteboard. Our break room had white bread and peanut butter for the workers. And pens. Sometimes.
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Choosy moms choose Jif. Choosy cheapwads choose store brand on clearance.