You get to your feet. There’s no room for privacy, no room for shame, but you feel it for the second time and walk to the kitchen. The pipe is in your clothes, as always. You load it with hadion crumbled between thumb and first finger, light the drug, knowing the old one will smell it, only wanting to hide the pleasure that floods your face. When that has gone, you will go back. You can hear his stark inhalation, and shake your head in sullen reproach; there’s no point in this pointlessness, yet guilt has forced you. After a few more puffs, you go back.

The old one is obscured by smoke. His pipe grows bright orange, dulls as the cloud swirls around him, dirt-grey, until he is only a thin shadow. You sit on the floor, back against the bed, take another puff. And although you cannot see each other, which is better for you both, there is laughter in the gloom. Him first, then you join in. The coughing that follows opens up your lungs. You are high. So is he. You drift together, heads thrown back, pipes lowered, and the glow of your pipes dies down, eventually out. The clouds continue to swirl, and buildings crumble beyond your window, and the three of you remain lost in personal voids.

Hadion clears the brain and body sooner than scrap. When you come to, he is sitting up, scanning the room as though he just arrived, wiping drool from his speckled jaw. You clamber to your feet. Help him up with a hand, pull. In the kitchen you throw porridge oats into a pot and run the cold tap to create a stodgy mush. You leave this on the fire until it bubbles, thickens, pour the mixture into bowls. You eat in the bedroom, both in silence, jaws moving simultaneously, quiet and comfortable.

The boy opens his eyes. There is no fear or surprise when he sees the older man; he simply nods and sits on the edge of the bed, peering. The old one gestures him closer. The boy laughs, looks at you, waiting for your agreement. When you do he crosses the room to where the old one sits, stumbling, rubbing eyes. The drug clings with sharp claws. He will soon need more, like the old one, like you. The old one gets to his feet, a slim construction of bone and flesh, towering over the boy. In a quick moment that makes you jump, they hug. The boy presses his forehead against the old one’s belly, arms clasped tight around him, and though you feel a moment’s jealousy, you know this is right. They stand that way for a long time, a fierce embrace. The old one cries, though no tears fall. His eyes simply become soft mirrors. You cannot tell the boy’s response.