“Baby, don’t think you’re something special because you’re not,” Tristan retorts, blinking several times, high as a kite, and I doubt he even knows what he’s saying. I’m not sure any of us do.

Delilah slaps her hand against his chest and he stumbles back a little, tensing and looking pissed, but then the crystal kicks in because he pops his jaw and his anger unravels. He blinks his focus off Delilah and onto me. “So are we going or what?”

“You two aren’t going anywhere together.” Delilah rubs her eyes, smearing mascara all over her face.

Tristan’s gaze cuts to her. “And who’s going to stop us. You?”

She takes sharp breaths, anger rising on her face, but she’s too weak to do anything to stop us. “Dylan said you two can’t go together anymore. You use all the stuff before it ever makes it back here. And your dumb ass has pissed off Trace and the last thing you need is to run into him. Even though Dylan got him to cool off, he says you need to lay low for a while, just in case. Plus, he hangs out at Johnny’s sometimes. You know that.”

“Yeah, but I don’t give a shit. And besides, Dylan’s not here to stop me, is he?” Tristan states with a crook of his brow. “So that means we get to decide what we want to do. And I’m going to Johnny’s. With Quinton. Trace can kiss my ass if he shows up.” He signals for me to follow him as he turns for the door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

I hesitate, my mind briefly making it through the veil of drugs to see a real problem arising. “Tristan, maybe I should just go alone. You pissed off Trace pretty bad and he’s not a guy you want to mess around with. Remember when he and his guys stabbed that one guy for…well, I can’t remember what for, but he still did it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, brushing me off as he sidesteps a bucket. “If Trace is there, we’ll just leave.”

I want to argue with him more, because he’s only thinking with his addiction, but the veil in my mind closes back up, and I lose track of why I should worry so much. “All right, let’s get out of here.”

“You guys are such assholes,” Delilah huffs, stomping her foot and crossing her arms over her chest.

Tristan shrugs as he opens the front door, scooping up a backpack that’s near the doorway. I cross the living room and step over a large glass bong sitting in the center of the pathway between the two smelly old sofas, the only furniture we have. Then I walk outside into the sunlight and it stings my eyes, which already felt like they were bleeding. Tristan mutters something to Delilah about keeping his bed warm for him while he’s gone and I hear something shatter, probably the bong. Then he slams the door, shaking his head as we start across the balcony, past all the shut doors and windows covered with curtains or blankets.

“She’s such a bitch,” he says, slipping the backpack on.

“Yeah, but I don’t know why you encourage her.” I shield my eyes with my hand to block out the sunlight. “You didn’t used to.”

“Things change,” he mutters, scratching his arm.

“Not really,” I say as we reach the top of the stairway, stepping out from under the protection of the roof. The light hits me straight on and I feel like a candle melting under the sun. “Things have been pretty much the same for the last six months.”

“You say that like it’s bad,” he tells me, trotting down the steps.

I jog down the stairway after him. “No, I say that like it’s true.”

He halts when we reach the bottom of the stairs. “Maybe you shouldn’t be saying anything about it at all,” he suggests, grinding his teeth as he stares out at the gravel parking lot and then at the stretch of desert and run-down brick buildings to the side of us.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I decide to keep my lips sealed as we head for the street, because I really shouldn’t be talking to him or giving him advice. He’s probably doing all this shit because of me, because I killed his sister. I ruined his life—I ruined a lot of people’s lives, something I’m reminded of every day when no one calls me or really talks to me, which is pretty much the way it’s been since the accident. In the beginning I was stupid enough to believe that someone was going to say that it wasn’t my fault, that it was just an accident. But that never happened. The opposite did. And now I’m here right where I belong and the last time I actually had a conversation about something other than drugs was with Nova.

God, stop thinking about her. What the hell is my problem?

As we walk by the bottom-floor apartments toward the parking lot, we pass by our neighbor, Cami, a middle-aged woman who likes to walk around in spandex skirts and tight shirts with no bra. She’s smoking a cigarette, staring out at the parking lot, but when we walk by she focuses on us.

“Hey, baby,” she says, moving away from her front door that she’s leaning against. “Any of ya got anything good on ya?” she asks, stumbling in her heels as she blows out smoke, making a path toward me.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” And even if I did, I wouldn’t give it to her.

I step to the side to go around her, but Tristan decides to stop and doesn’t follow me, so I pause just behind Cami and wait for him.

“What are you looking for?” he asks and I shake my head at him. Cami is a whore, and I mean that literally. She sells herself for money or drugs, whatever she needs at the time.

“Tristan, let’s go.” I say, targeting him with a look that says, Don’t go there, man.

He looks genuinely baffled. “What?”

I nod at Cami, who seems oblivious. No way, I mouth.

“What do ya got?” Cami says, stepping forward. “I’ll take anything. I ain’t got any cash.” She sticks her chest out, like she’s trying to seduce him.

I don’t even wait for Tristan to respond. I grab the sleeve of his shirt and tug him away. Cami yells something at us about being a tease and that we need to come back, but I keep on walking with Tristan in tow, refusing to let go of him until we reach the edge of the parking lot.

“I can’t believe you were seriously considering that,” I say, releasing the sleeve of his jacket.

He kicks the tip of his sneaker at the dirt. “I wasn’t really…I was just curious what’d she say for future reference.”

“You know she doesn’t pay in cash, right?”

He wavers, deciding whether he really cares. “Yeah, well, it didn’t hurt anything, did it?”

I opt to drop the subject and turn up the sidewalk that borders the busy street. We walk by hotels that are pretty much crack houses and by shops, heading toward another apartment complex that’s about a mile down the road. It’s hot, probably pushing a hundred and ten, and the heat dries out my skin, throat, and nose. The Strip, which is the main tourist area of the city, is a ways in the distance, soaring buildings and casinos that reflect the sunlight. When you walk down it at night they’re even more blinding because all the neon lights are turned on and blinking. I actually hate walking down the Strip at all. Too much going on and it doesn’t fit with all the fast motion going on in my head.

“So do you think Dylan’s going to catch on that I’m ripping him off?” Tristan asks as we pause at a curb, waiting for a car to get out of the way so we can cross the street.

I rake my hand over my head. My hair’s grown out and is sort of scruffy, like my face, since I haven’t shaved in a while. Things like that just don’t seem that important anymore. It’s not like I get any benefit from looking clean. It’s just a waste of my time.

“Does it really matter if he does?” I ask as we cross the street. “You don’t seem like you’re afraid of him.”

“Who Dylan?” Tristan snorts a laugh. “Yeah, have you seen how much weight he’s lost? And he’s always drunk or so doped up he can’t even spell his own name.”

“I think we all look like that,” I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets.

“I look fine.” He scowls at me. “You know, I don’t get why you do that. Why you always point out where we’re all headed.”

“Because I don’t think everyone should be headed there,” I tell him. “Besides, sometimes I don’t think everyone fully understands where they’re headed.”

“Well, no one really does. Not me. Not you. Not that guy walking down the street over there,” he says, pointing at a guy holding up a sign that says he’ll work for food.

“I think some of us do,” I disagree. “I just think some won’t admit it.”

“You know, you’re really killing my buzz,” he says, annoyed. “And I know the only reason we’re talking about this is because you’re spun out of your mind and can’t turn your thoughts and mouth off.”

“I know that, but still, I really feel like I need to say it.”

“Well, don’t, because I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“I have to.” I can’t seem to find the off switch to my mouth, so I just let it keep moving. “I don’t get why you’re here. I mean, I know you weren’t the best kid ever, but still this whole drug thing…I mean, your parents care about you.”

“No, they care about Ryder.” His voice matches his aggravation. “And now that she’s dead, they only care about her more. So I’m going to do whatever the hell I want to. And what I want to do is drugs…it makes things so much easier.”

I understand what he’s saying way too well. I pause, a dry, hot lump forcing its way up into my throat. “I’m sorry.”

Tristan shakes his head, looking away from me and fixing his attention on the metal building beside us. “Stop saying you’re sorry. Shit happened. People died. Life goes on. I’m not here because of anything you did. I’m here because this is where I choose to be and because it makes me feel better about life.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I mutter, not fully believing him. More bricks of guilt pile onto my shoulders and it takes a lot not to buckle to the ground.

He returns his focus to me, his eyes a little too wide against the sunlight, his forehead beaded with sweat from the scorching heat. “Now can we please stop with all the insightful tweaker talk or I’m going to have to turn back and go do another line.”

I nod, even though I don’t want to stop talking, because then I’ll have to think. But Tristan stays quiet, muttering shit under his breath as he picks at his arm. My eyes drift to the skyline, where the tops of the buildings and the sky meet. When the sun sets and the sky turns pastel oranges and pinks, it’s actually really beautiful. It’s one of the few things I can say that about anymore. Everything else seems dark, gray, and gloomy. Nothing seems beautiful, not even the stuff I saw in the past. And my future, well, it seems pretty much dead, like I’m walking toward a coffin, ready to tuck myself in and pull the lid shut. Then maybe someone will do me the favor of burying me below the dirt, where I can stop breathing, stop thinking, stop noticing how beautiful it is. The only people who will miss me are drug dealers and the people I deal to sometimes. The more I think about it, the more I just want to throw myself out in the street, hope a car hits me with enough force for my heart to stop again, because there’s no point to it beating anymore. This has to be the bottom, right? There’s no going back up. This is it. Yet for some reason I keep walking, talking, breathing—living.

“Did you bring your knife, by chance?” Tristan asks as we round the corner of a single-story brick building that’s painted with multicolored graffiti and start to cut across the gravel parking lot to the side of it.

“Do you remember what I told you when you asked me to bring it the other day?” I say and he shakes his head, looking stumped. “That I don’t have one.”

Tristan sighs as he kicks an empty beer bottle across the ground. “I’m thinking I probably should have brought…” He trails off as a sleek black Cadillac drives up and slams on its brakes, stopping right in front of us, kicking up a cloud of dust in our faces.

The windows are tinted but I think I already know who’s in there. Trace and his guys.

Tristan instantly starts to back away as the doors open up, hitching his fingers through the straps of the backpack. Two large guys get out of the back of the car, their faces very familiar, and I remember meeting them once before. Darl and Donny, Trace’s pit bulls, sort of. The ones who do his dirty work.

“Shit. We have to go,” Tristan says, panicking and turning to run, but I don’t move. “Quinton, get the fuck out of here. Now.”

Donny is holding a tire iron, and as he strolls toward us he slams it into his palm with a threatening look on his face and I can’t help but think of Roy and the many other stories I’ve heard about drug deals gone wrong. Broken legs. Arms. Noses. It’s pretty fucking common. People get cranked up on crack and money and run on overactive adrenaline and emotion. They don’t think clearly. They cheat, they steal. Hell, I’ve done it. I knew I could get hurt. Go to jail. Die even. Regardless of the consequences, I don’t really care what happens to me. Tristan, yeah, but he’s already running off. Me, I couldn’t give a shit. Pain, bring it on. I deserve pain. I deserve nothing. Maybe this can be the car that runs into me and stops my heart. Besides, if I stay here, then maybe I can distract them from Tristan, give him a chance to get away. I owe him that much.