Page 14 of On the Edge

“Is your companion breathing, ma’am?” I ask, stepping closer and pointing to the unmoving body. People choke and die on their own vomit. I have read about this happening.

“What?” she says again, but obligingly puts a hand on the other woman’s shoulder and gives her a vigorous shake. I flinch at the roughness of the gesture, but it does the trick. Her companion sits up, and now I am speaking totwounclothed and wasted women.

“Where is Atlas?” I ask firmly, because I know from experience that the best way to deal with drunk people is to project confidence.

“The Chinese guy?” one of them asks.

“He is not Chinese, he…sure, yes, the Chinese guy. Where may I find him?” My headache becomes more insistent. I want to correct her, but I also know that getting into an argument about ethnic profiling with a drunk person will not be fruitful.

“Bedroom down at the end of the hall,” she grumbles, pointing a pale arm to the right before flopping back onto the pillow.

“Thank you.”

I bypass the rest of the doors until I get to the one at the end of the hall. It’s closed, so I knock gently before just letting myself in. The state of this house and its occupants are worrisome. I desperately want to leave. I desperately want to get back to my clean, orderly dorm room and crawl into my non-vomit-soaked sheets.

The moment I walk into the bedroom, I breathe a sigh of relief. Atlas is stretched out on the bed, flat on his stomach, with one arm and leg hanging over the side. His face is turned toward the door, cheek resting against the mattress, and he’s breathing softly.

“Atlas,” I murmur, placing my palm flat on the middle of his upper back and looking around. There are several small, white pills sitting on the nightstand as well as an empty bottle of cheap vodka. The pills keep my attention far longer than the alcohol. “Atlas, wake up, it is time to be leaving.”

“Mm.” He mumbles something incoherent and turns to bury his face into the dirty sheets. Alarmed, I grasp his shoulder and pull him back.

“Atlas, do not put your face there. This place is very dirty.” The rebuke has him opening his eyes and squinting up at me. A dopey, half-smile crawls across his face.

“En-reeeee,” he says, and immediately tries to sit up. I have to help him. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and tips backward until I steady him with my hand on hisback. His shirt is damp with sweat and there is a feverish, waxy sheen to his eyes. They look like marbles.

“We are leaving,” I say, hooking a hand under his armpit and yanking him to standing. I cannot spend another moment in this place or I will lose my mind.

“Bossy Henri,” he says coyly, wrapping a surprisingly firm arm around my waist and plastering himself to my side.

“Do you have your things? Cellphone and wallet?”

He rolls his head until it’s lying against my shoulder, so I assume that means he’s not going to answer. Gently, I reach down and try to pat his pockets. He giggles.

“That’s not a cellphone in my pocket, I’m just happy to see you,” he tells me, before devolving into fits of manic laughter.

Sighing, I look around the room. His wallet is in his back pocket, but he’s right about the cellphone not being there. Pulling out my own, I call his number and listen for it. After locating his phone—in the closet, of all places—I walk him out the door. He’s mostly walking on his own, but still holding tight enough to me that we look like we are competing in a three-legged race. I have to turn him to the side to maneuver down the hallway. Together, we are too wide to fit across.

None of his companions stop us on our way out, and I don’t even see the man in the tank top who answered the door. I hope I never, ever have to see him again for as long as I live.

Atlas keeps up a steady stream of gibberish as I help him into the passenger seat of the car, occasionally bursting out into fits of random laughter. When I bend over him to click the seat belt into place, he places his hand on my side and runs his fingertips over my ribs.

“One, two, three, four,” he counts under his breath. Itighten the belt and gently close the door. When I slide into the driver’s seat, his dark eyes are shining in the interior light of the car, watching me.

“If you need to be sick, please let me know. We will pull over, yes?” I hand him a water bottle. “You should take small sips of this, please. Do not chug it.”

He takes the bottle from me and obediently opens it, sloshing some down his front as he tries to drink. Mentally, I addclean carto my to-do list for tomorrow. He holds the bottle out to me as though offering some to share.

“No, thank you. That is for you.” I glance over at him after carefully backing us down the driveway. His forehead is leaned against the window, with the water bottle balanced precariously in his lap. “Atlas, do you remember if you took anything?”

He rotates his head enough for me to see one glassy, dark eye. I don’t know what to do—take him home or take him to the hospital. I miss Carter and Max with an intensity that burns hot in my chest and makes it hard to breathe. They would know what needs to be done.

“Oh, probably,” he responds flippantly.

“What did you take? What are the white pills?”

“Blue ones, white ones, pink ones. I don’t remember.”

Pulling up to a stop sign, I verify that nobody is behind me and turn to him. He seems less manic now that we’re in the quiet, dark car. I put a hand on his shoulder and give him a small, gentle shake.

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