Page 8 of Vital Signs
I stumbled up the stairs and out the side door, the winter air hitting me like a slap. My lungs burned with each ragged breath. The grief was crushing. I couldn't do this. I couldn't face what had happened to Tyler, what I'd failed to prevent. Not without something to dull the edges.
The wind cut through my jacket as I oriented myself. The funeral home sat at the edge of Liar's Corner, where civilization gave way to miles of frozen fields and skeletal forests.
The camp was a thirty-minute walk on a good day. This wasn't a good day. My body screamed for relief from withdrawal, from grief, from the fucking cold. The shaking was worse now, a bone-deep tremor that had nothing to do with the temperature.
I staggered away from the funeral home toward the underpass about a block away. It wasn't much, but it would block the wind, providing some shelter from prying eyes.
The McDonald's across the street glowed with artificial warmth. There were a few cars in the drive-thru, night shift workers inside paying no attention to the world beyond their windows. The Piggly Wiggly next door was closed, its parking lot empty except for a single security light casting long shadows.
The underpass loomed ahead, concrete stained with years of exhaust and rural neglect. It smelled of damp earth and stale beer, but it was out of the wind. My sanctuary of last resort. I'd slept here more than once when the camp wasn't safe or I was too fucked up to make it back.
Traffic rumbled overhead, each passing car sending vibrations through the concrete. The sound echoed strangely in the enclosed space, a reminder of Route 33 flowing like an artery between Athens and Columbus. The highway was an endless stream of headlights, people with somewhere to be, bypassing the dying organs of rural Ohio. Cigarette butts and broken glass crunched beneath my boots as I moved deeper into the shadows.
I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit on the filthy ground. The concrete leached what little warmth remained in my body. My hands shook violently as I pulled out my kit, fingers clumsy.
Tyler's face kept flashing behind my eyelids. That determination when he talked about top surgery. The way he'd grinned when I used his real name.
And behind Tyler, another face. Brown eyes that had looked at me without disgust. Elegant hands that had touched my shoulder without flinching. A voice that had said "I'll be here" like it was a promise instead of a threat.
I pulled out the small black case. The ritual was muscle memory now. Spoon, lighter, cotton, needle. I didn't let myself think about Tyler while I did it. Couldn't think about Michael either.
Both of them deserved better than this. Than me, destroying myself under a bridge while they waited for justice.
But my hands wouldn't stop shaking. Not just withdrawal this time. Grief made the tremors worse, made everything harder. And the memory of a hand on my shoulder, steadying me while the world fell apart.
"Fuck," I whispered. When had I started crying?
Finding a vein was nearly impossible between the cold and the shaking. I missed twice, blood welling up, and had to dig for it. Tyler would be so fucking disappointed. He'd looked up to me once. Thought I had my shit together because I used to be a nurse.
Used to be.
The needle finally slid in. I pulled back, watched the bloom of blood, and pushed the plunger. Always be gentle. Never rush. Respect the medicine. They'd taught me that for terminal patients.
Turned out I was terminal too.
Warmth bloomed through my chest. The shaking eased. The grief didn't disappear, just... softened at the edges. Became bearable. Brown eyes faded from my mind.
For now.
I closed my eyes, head tipped back against the grimy concrete. Cars passed overhead, the rumble vibrating through the wall into my bones.
Tyler was dead, and I was high, and nothing had changed.
The McDonald's lights flickered through my half-closed eyelids. I needed to move. Find somewhere safer to crash. The camp was miles away, but maybe I could make it to the abandoned storage units closer to the river. Jimmy would let me crash at his unit if I were desperate enough.
I repacked my kit. Organization was survival. The small sharps container held my used needle, the cotton saved for later if needed. Everything tucked away neatly, a ritual as important as the drug itself.
When I finally stood, my legs steadied, but the world had taken on a slightly dreamy quality that meant I wasn't going anywhere important tonight.
The Laskin Funeral Home could wait. Tyler wasn't going anywhere. And Michael wouldn't judge me for taking time. He'd said he'd be there. Said he'd wait.
I'd seen Tyler. I knew what had happened to him. That knowledge sat like poison in my veins, demanding action I wasn't capable of tonight.
But tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd go back. Figure out what happened and who was responsible.
And maybe, just maybe, figure out why a beautiful stranger's compassion made him more dangerous than any drug I'd ever taken.
Sleep refused to come.
