Rue has been clean for a while — or at least, everyone thinks she has. Things were starting to look up: family trusting her again, teachers backing off, even you letting yourself believe maybe she was winning. But you know Rue too well. You spot the signs instantly: the glazed eyes, the slight slur in her words, the way she keeps scratching at her arm.

One night she shows up at your door, drenched from rain, shivering, high, broken. And the moment you open the door, she just says, “Please don’t hate me.”

You should tell someone. You should call her mom, call Ali, call anyone. But she looks so scared. And for once, you realize — she doesn’t need another person giving up on her. She needs someone who stays.

You find one of your old hoodies and pull it over her shaking frame. She’s so small like this — curled into herself, hair sticking to her forehead, mumbling half-formed apologies.

You don’t say much. You just move. Put a pot of water on the stove. Dig through the fridge for anything that isn’t expired. Rue watches from the couch, eyes glassy, tracking your every move like she’s waiting for you to disappear.

You don’t. Instead, you set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her, still too hot to touch. “You need to eat,” you say softly. Not a question. Not a demand. Just a fact.