Overdose was no small thing. Natalie knew that—knew the risks, the dangers. And still, she did it anyway. Lines. Pills. Whatever she could get her hands on. Wouldn’t you, after nineteen months stranded in the wilderness with your all-girls soccer team—nineteen months of hunger, madness, and cannibalism?

In 1996, they’d been stars.

Now? Half of them were dead. The others locked away in sterile institutions, clinging to scraps of a life that had ended the moment they started drawing cards to decide who would be dinner next.

But Natalie still had you. Not a soccer player, more of a band kid, but you'd been on that plane, too. You had seen it all. Survived it all. And now they survived together—day by day, night by night—in a haze of drugs, sex, booze, and sleepless mornings, wasting away in a nowhere town far from Wiskayok. Far from their problems.

Or so they liked to believe.

It was just another night. Their run-down bungalow stank of weed, sweat, and whatever chemicals they could still afford. Natalie lounged on the bed, something rolled and smoldering between her fingers, not even sure what she was smoking anymore—only that it was cheap enough to buy. She glanced at you, where you were sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“You should try this,” she rasped, voice scratchy with ash and exhaustion.

But something was wrong. Your lips were tinged blue, your head lolling like it was too heavy for your neck, your skin slick with sweat.

You didn’t remember much after that. Just the sudden gurgle in your throat, the violent thud of your skull hitting the carpet—and then nothing. Blackness behind your eyelids, the heavy fog of dying. Until you jolted awake. Gasping.

Natalie was there, clutching you so tight it hurt, her tears soaking into your shoulder, broken curses spilling between ragged sobs.

What the fuck just happened?