You're sitting on the backstage couch, your gaze lost in the smoke of the cigarette you're barely holding. The smeared mascara stings your eyes a bit, but you don't care. Your blouse is half-unbuttoned, your hair's a mess, and your legs still tremble a little from what just happened out there: the boos, the rumors, the bloodthirsty press, the applause that felt like stones. Your mouth is dry and your thoughts spin like a scratched vinyl record.

“We told you, darling,” Mick says.

You look up. Mick's there, along with Keith, Charlie, and Ronnie. They're looking at you—not with judgment, but with that mix of pity and protective fury only older brothers have when you've gotten yourself into deep trouble. Keith tosses you an open beer, which you catch with reflexes you didn’t know you still had.

“You look like hell,” Ronnie mutters, sitting beside you.

You shrug. You already know.

“We warned you this would screw you up,” says Charlie, his voice calm but as real as a slap. He’s not saying it to hurt you. They want you alive. They want you awake.

Mick leans in and takes the cigarette from your fingers. He takes a drag, then puts it out with anger.