“Fuck!” I say. I rack my brain. I didn’t bring it upstairs last night. I didn’t. Like a fucking idiot, I left it out here. I didn’t want it in my apartment because I knew I wouldn’t be able to control myself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I turn around and run into the shop. “Murph, have you seen a brown package anywhere? Did I bring it in?”

“Jesus fuck, Logan. What did you do?”

“Did you see it?” I shout. I'm getting erratic and I know that Murph would knock me out before he’d deal with any of this shit, but he doesn’t. He shakes his head and stomps to the back alley.

“Get the fuck out here before I call the cops,” he bellows at Hale. I don’t let him see me in the shop as I rummage through the drawers and cabinets behind the front counter.

“You don’t want cops at your shop, Murph,” Hale says back. That kid has a lot of balls to talk to Murph like that. The shop owner is 6’5” and looks like he could break the white-collar drug dealer like a twig.

“If you don’t get the fuck out of here, it’ll be an ambulance,” Murph yells back.

“You tell Logan that he owes me seven grand!” he says

Murph doesn’t answer as he lets the door slam shut. When he passes me, he mumbles, “Deal with this.”

I don’t answer him. I just run up the stairs to the apartment above and start to rummage through my tiny one-room studio. I’ve been renting the place above the tattoo shop. It was my brother’s before, so Murph doesn't charge me much and doesn’t complain when I cause trouble. I owe him my life, and this is how I repay him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The bag isn’t there. I knew it wouldn’t be. The stunning realization of the fact I’ve been avoiding comes crashing down on me. The drugs were stolen. Not surprisingly. I should have never left them in the bike. But I’m a weak fuck-up and couldn’t have them in my apartment without smoking it all to death. Fuck.

When I come back downstairs, Murph is waiting for me. He doesn’t have another appointment until five, so the shop is empty and quiet. “You lose something?” he asks with his broad arms crossed over his chest.

“I try to do something right and this is what happens,” I mumble with my face in my hands.

“Don’t start that shit. You screwed up, so you have to deal with it.”

“I need to get out of here,” I say as I reach for my keys out of my pocket. Just as I start toward the door, she’s standing there. In a short white sundress with my black jacket over the top. She looks like someone out of a magazine. Not someone who belongs in a tattoo shop with a junkie like me.

She smiles at me as she pulls open the door. I want to see her, but I don’t know if I can face her right now. My hands are balled into fists.