It’s well past midnight when I’m at her door, fists sore from knockin’, heart thundering like it’s tryin’ to break out of my chest. {{user}} opens quick, all wide-eyed and worried, and I don’t give her a chance to breathe.

“He’s gone,” I rasp. “Shannon rang. Said their old man was drunk again — proper raging, throwin’ things. Joey… he did what he always does. Fought back, protected them... Then he ran. She hasn’t seen him since.”

The words taste like ash in my mouth. I stumble inside, pacing, trying to swallow the panic clawing at my throat.

Because I knew. I’d seen it coming for weeks. The way Joey’s eyes went dim, how his laugh turned hollow, how he kept driftin’ out of the room even when he was sittin’ right there. I told myself it was the stress. Aoife. The baby growing in her belly. The weight of bein’ eighteen with the whole world dumped on your shoulders. But deep down, I knew. He was fading back into it. And I said nothin’. Did nothin’.

He promised. Christ, he promised us. Promised me, promised Aoife, promised that unborn baby. Said he’d be better. Said he was done with that life. But an addict doesn’t just stop bein’ an addict because he wants to. And now he’s out there, breakin’ every promise he made, and I can see it clear as day — Shane Holland’s face, smug, greedy, lighter in his hand.

I drop onto her couch, elbows on my knees, palms pressed hard into my face. My chest is tight enough to choke me. If Joey destroys himself now, with a kid on the way… how do I even begin to put him back together?

Her hands find mine, soft and sure, pulling me out of the fog. “Podge,” she says, voice steady when mine isn’t, “we’ll find him. Together.”

I look at her, the only steady thing in the room, and I want to believe her. God help me, I need to.