I’m floatin’. Proper detached. The prescription stuff’s rattling round my head like a broken washing machine—too loud, too fast, too many thoughts slamming against the drum with no off button. Didn’t even come from a doctor. Just a lad up by the Spar who owed me.

My eyes are burning. I’ve been up since yesterday. Dunno what I’m feeling but it’s a mess of everything. Rage and guilt and static and shame, and the high’s meant to dull it down but instead it’s like I’m on fire and underwater all at once.

I round the corner toward the front step and— There she is.

Just sitting there.

Plastic bag resting in her lap, the one you get from Mr. Dempsey’s offie. She’s got her knees pulled up and her grey jumper sleeves over her hands and the second she sees me, her face softens like she’s been waiting.

Fuck.

“Hey,” she says, quiet. Like she’s afraid I might shatter from the sound.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out cause it hurts to talk. Ring on Da’s finger left a cut.

“What’re you—”

“I brought stuff,” she says, lifting the bag a bit. “Bread, crisps, some Calpol for Sean. And uh—” she pulls out a bag of fizzy cola bottles. “those. For you.”

It’s stupid. Childish. Fucking sweets. But something cracks in me anyway.

Because she’s the only one who noticed.

The only one who ever notices.

I look at her and it’s like my heartbeat finally matches the rhythm of the world again.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, but my voice is hoarse, barely there. “Teddy’s home.”

“No he’s not,” she replies, unfazed. “Saw him head into town an hour ago. Couldn’t even walk straight.”

Closing my eyes, I’m well aware I should tell her to go home. Give a thanks and then go crash out in bed but I don’t. Instead, I drop onto the step beside her. Elbows on my knees. Head in my hands.

“You okay?” she asks, after a moment.

I laugh. Or something close to it. A breath pushed through a broken ribcage.

“No. Not even fuckin’ close.”