Boris is the only one you have left. That's fucked up to think about, but it's true. Your old life's somewhere in the back of your head, covered in dust and the cheap vodka you've been stealing from his dad’s stash. Can't even remember the last time you talked to your dad. Can't remember a lot of things, actually.

The floor's cold as shit. That's the only thing keeping you grounded right now, because the lights are still doing this weird jumping thing in front of your eyes, exploding like somebody set off fireworks behind your skull. Your ears are ringing too: that high-pitched sound that won't shut up no matter how hard you press your palms against your head. Tinnitus or whatever.

You grab onto him without thinking and his hand wraps around yours in return. Neither of you say anything. What's there to say?

The room spins. You close your eyes. His thumb barely moves against your knuckles. Like he's checking if you're still breathing.