Page 64 of Vital Signs

"But don't come back without real cash next time."

He handed me a small baggie containing white powder. Not much, but enough. Enough to make the screaming stop. Enough to erase the betrayal of Misha walking away just like everyone else.

"Got clean gear?" Trent asked, straightening his polo shirt as if we were discussing a business transaction. In a way, we were.

I nodded, already reaching for the black case in my pocket.

"You want to do it here?" he offered, gesturing to the guest bathroom. "In case something goes wrong?"

Yes. No. I didn't know anymore. If something went wrong, did I even want it fixed? Or would it be easier to just let the darkness take me?

"I'll be fine," I said, voice steadier than it had any right to be. "I've done this plenty of times."

Trent's mouth twisted. "Yeah, that's what Lena said too."

"I know what I'm doing," I said, already heading for the door. "I was a nurse, remember?"

"Was," he agreed, voice flat. "Past tense."

The bitter January air hit me as I stumbled back to Misha's van. Every molecule of my being screamed for immediate relief, but something stopped me from shooting up in Trent's driveway. A small voice whispered that I should go back to where Misha had left me. Just in case.

The drive back to Walmart passed in a blur of pain and need. By the time I pulled into the same parking spot as before, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely turn off the ignition.

Hours had passed since Misha had left. Too many hours.

The parking lot was busier now. The baggie sat heavy in my pocket, calling to me. But instead of reaching for it immediately, I fumbled for my phone, which had slid beneath the passenger seat. One last check. One final attempt.

I can't do this anymore, Misha. I tried. I'm sorry.

No response. Not even "delivered" this time. Battery dead, maybe. Or blocked.

I set the phone on the dash where he'd see it.

I opened the black case and got out everything I needed. Spoon. Lighter. Cotton. Syringe.

I should've waited. Should've started with a test dose. Should've had someone watching me.

But the animal need was stronger than the nurse's caution.

I searched frantically for water, anything to dissolve the powder. The empty bottles around me mocked my desperation. That's why Misha had left in the first place. We'd run out of everything.

With shaking hands, I forced the door open and stumbled out. The January air cut through my sweat-soaked clothes as I staggered toward a small patch of grass at the edge of the lot. Even in withdrawal, some fragment of my medical training remained. Road salt and exhaust would contaminate the parking lot snow. My legs nearly gave out as I knelt, scooping clean snowfrom the untouched grass. Back in the van, I held it over the spoon, warming it until it melted.

I tied off my arm with the rubber tubing, teeth gritting as I pulled it tight. My veins had mostly collapsed from years of abuse, but the crook of my elbow still offered one reliable option. It took three tries to find it, the needle digging painfully before I saw that bloom of crimson in the barrel.

For a fraction of a second, I hesitated.

Misha's face flickered through my mind. The way he'd looked at me with respect instead of pity. The way he'd chosen me when everyone else said I was worthless. The way his hands had touched my skin, learning my pulse, counting my heartbeats like they mattered.

But he was gone now. I had no reason left to want to be sober.

I pushed the plunger home.

The fentanyl hit my bloodstream like a nuclear blast. My head slammed back against the headrest as warmth rushed through my veins. The relief was so intense it bordered on spiritual, my entire body releasing at once.

"Fuck," I whispered, eyelids fluttering as the high wrapped around me.

Everything slowed down. Colors deepened, sounds stretched and distorted. The morning sunlight filtering through the windshield became almost tangible, particles dancing in golden beams. For the first time in days, I could breathe without pain.