Chapter 2

The dealer's place was a rundown house on Sycamore Street, the porch light burned out, the mailbox hanging by one screw. Shane had been here a dozen times, but tonight the familiar path felt different. She passed the old playground where she and Sarah used to swing until their mother called them in for dinner. The swings were rusted, the chains creaking in the breeze. She didn't slow down.

A man named Leo answered the door, his eyes half-lidded, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn't say much, just took the crumpled bills from Shane's hand and passed her a small plastic bag. The exchange was routine, mechanical. She tucked it into her pocket next to the foil bundle and walked away.

Back in her studio apartment, the air smelled like stale coffee and regret. She locked the door, drew the blinds, and sat on the floor with her back against the bed. The bag and the foil bundle lay side by side on the carpet. She stared at them for a long time. Her hands were steady now, but her mind was a storm. She thought of Sarah's hand brushing her sleeve. She thought of the way her father had looked at her last time they spoke—like she was already gone.

She opened the foil bundle first. The crystals glinted under the dim light. She prepared her tools with the practiced ease of someone who had done this too many times. The lighter clicked. The pipe heated. And then the world softened, the edges blurring into something bearable.

But this time, the high brought no relief. Instead, it opened a door she had kept locked. Memories flooded in: Sarah's face at the coffee shop, the hurt in her eyes; her father's voice, gruff but trembling, saying, "I just want my daughter back"; her own reflection in the bathroom mirror, hollow and gaunt. The room felt smaller, the walls pressing in. Her heart raced, not with euphoria, but with a cold, creeping dread.

She dropped the pipe. It clattered against the floor, the glass cracking. She pressed her palms to her eyes, and the tears came—hot, shameful, unstoppable. She sobbed into her hands, her shoulders shaking. The sound was raw, animal, the sound of someone who had run out of road.

"I can't do this anymore," she whispered to the empty room. The words hung in the air, fragile and true.

She crawled to the corner where her phone lay. Her fingers trembled as she unlocked it. Sarah's messages glowed on the screen. She scrolled to the latest one: "I'm outside. Please just talk to me. For five minutes." She typed a reply, deleted it, typed again. Finally, she wrote three words: "I need help."

Her thumb hovered over the send button. The weight of it pressed down on her chest. Before she could decide, a knock sounded at the door.

"Shane?" Sarah's voice, muffled but clear. "I know you're in there. Please. I saw the text from your dealer. I've been driving around for an hour. I had to find you."

Shane's breath caught. She looked at the mess around her—the pipe, the lighter, the scattered crystals. She could hide it all in thirty seconds. She could tell Sarah she was fine, that she'd been about to flush it. The lie was ready on her tongue.

But the word 'help' still sat in her unsent message. She looked at it, and then at the door.

Shane pulled herself up, her legs unsteady. She reached for the doorknob. Her hand closed around the cool metal, and she stood there, frozen, as Sarah knocked again.

"Shane, I'm not leaving. I will stand here all night."

The knob turned in her grip. One motion. That was all it would take.