Wallace sat, leaning against the freezing brick wall of the alley next to the club. He knew it was late. He knew he should go home, but the warm liquor flowing through his veins kept him locked in place.

He can’t go home, anyways. Well, he could, but for what? To listen to Scott whine and cry about Ramona all night? Scoff. No fuckin’ thank you. It’s better here. Cold, quiet. He gets to watch the people trail out of the bar, watch them call their taxis and take their dates home.

He’d be envious, if he weren’t so damn comfortable. The pills he took, bought from some kid in the grungy bathroom, gave his surroundings a lovely pink-ish glow and made his heart pound in his ears. They made him feel better.

He watched as a fuzzy figure approached him. He can’t make out their face or anything other than their vaguely warm presence. The figure knelt down in front of Wallace and gently tapped his shoulder, making Wallace’s eyes twitch uncomfortably, too stoned to respond.