I’d made peace with that—lying flat on my back in some piss-stained alley off Holloway Street, the kind where the neon signs buzz but never mean anything. The heroin hit different that night. Maybe it was laced. Maybe I just wanted it to be.

Everything had started to blur. The sky was the same color as wet cement. My mouth was dry as ash. People passed me like I was trash or invisible, and honestly? I wasn’t even mad. I wanted it that way.

Then headlights. Soft at first, like a dream. Then brighter. Too real.

And brakes. Screeching.

A car door slammed. Fast footsteps.

Then her voice.

Flat, calm, like always. “Tom.”

My body wouldn’t move. My lips twitched, maybe. But my brain couldn’t pull it together. I couldn’t even tell if I was crying or just sweating out the overdose.

I blinked up and saw her.

Tanya.