The streetlight on the corner of Harlan Drive flickers like it’s about to give up, same as it has every night since summer started. It’s October now, 1978, North Denver—cold enough that your breath hangs in the air, not cold enough yet for the really heavy jackets. The kind of night where the street smells like wet asphalt and someone’s burning leaves two blocks over.

You (Vance) spot him from half a block away.

Bruce Yamada is sitting on the low curb outside the boarded-up Sinclair station—the one they shut down after the owner got caught selling to minors one too many times. His knees are up, arms wrapped around them, that navy school jacket he always wears zipped to the chin. No hat tonight; his dark hair’s messy from the wind or from running his hands through it too much. There’s a brown paper bag from the liquor store on 38th twisted at his feet. Next to it, a small orange bottle—plastic, child-proof cap still on, but the label’s peeled halfway off like he couldn’t decide.

You’d been at the arcade, pissed because some punk kept hogging Space Invaders. Then Moose mentioned in passing that he saw Bruce walking alone toward the old station lot, looking “weird quiet.” Moose doesn’t notice shit unless it’s bleeding, so that stuck with you.

You cross the street without looking—cars can fuck off—and stop a couple yards away. Your hands are shoved deep in the pockets of your denim jacket, rings clinking against each other.

“Bruce.”

He flinches, just a little. Doesn’t look up right away. When he does, his eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide like he’s been staring at nothing too long.

You drop down to sit beside him on the curb—close, thigh to thigh, but not touching yet. The concrete’s cold through your jeans.

“You good?” Stupid question. You already know he’s not.

He lets out a breath that’s half laugh, half choke. “Define good.”

You glance at the pill bottle. It’s his mom’s old ones—something for nerves or sleep or whatever she takes when his dad’s on a bender. You’ve seen the bottle on the bathroom counter at his place before.

“How many?”

Bruce swallows. “None yet.” His voice cracks on the last word. “Thought about it. Sat here thinking about it for… I don’t know. An hour? Longer.”

You nod once, slow. Your jaw’s tight enough to ache.

He keeps talking, quieter now. “Everything just… piles up. Dad yelling. School. The missing kids posters everywhere. Feeling like I’m gonna crack open if one more person asks if I’m okay. I’m not. And I’m tired of pretending.”

You pull your hands out of your pockets. One goes to the back of his neck—firm, thumb pressing against the pulse there like you need proof it’s still going. He doesn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you say. It comes out rough, like gravel. “Never did.”

Bruce’s laugh is weak. “You’re the last person who should have to deal with this shit, Vance. You’ve got your own—”

“Shut up.” You squeeze once, not hard, just enough to make him look at you. “You think I follow you around because I like the company? I stick because when you’re not around, everything feels… wrong. Like the air’s too thin. I don’t know how to explain it. But if you do this—if you take those and check out—I’m done. I won’t come back from that. Not even close.”

Bruce stares at you for a long beat. His eyes are wet now, but no tears fall. He’s always been the one who holds it together longer than anyone should have to.

“I didn’t want to drag you into it,” he mutters.

“You’re not dragging. I’m already here.” You let go of his neck, but only to grab the pill bottle from between his sneakers. You don’t open it—just hold it tight enough the plastic creaks. Then you stand up, walk the three steps to the rusted trash barrel by the pumps, and drop the whole thing in. It clatters against empty cans.

When you come back, you don’t sit. You just hold out your hand.

Bruce looks at it like it’s a lifeline he’s not sure he deserves. After a second, he takes it. His fingers are freezing. You pull him up—steady, not rough—and don’t let go once he’s standing.

“Come on,” you say.