My stomach plunged. It must’ve come off when Gabe and I dragged her to the water. And Ben had found it.

I shoved the scarf into my back pocket. My brother’s face was tinted a horrible bluish gray, and when I shined my flashlight in his eyes, his pupils were tiny, like flecks of pepper.

“Oh, no, no, no!”

I shoved my fingers against his carotid artery, checking for a pulse. He was alive. Barely, but his heart was still beating. The bigger problem right now was how shallow his breathing was. Respiratory depression.

I thought of the naloxone in my car. If Ben was overdosing from oxy, it would work. But I didn’t have a high enough dose to treat fentanyl. Still, it was worth a try.

I raced back the way I’d come, shoving past the overgrown bushes at the side of the warehouse and staggering to my car. I threw open the trunk and fumbled with the zip of my first aid kit. I grabbed the naloxone and the needle, slammed the trunk closed. In the backseat, I saw Josh jump and twist to look at me with wide, frightened eyes. I put a finger up, motioning that I’d be right back.

In the warehouse, I knelt next to Ben.

“Come on. Come on.”

I ripped the orange top off the vial and jabbed the needle into the top, carefully drawing the naloxone into the syringe.

My heart was thumping, but my hands were steady, the way I’d been trained. I yanked the collar of Ben’s sweater down and plunged the needle into his shoulder.

Nothing happened.

“Ben, wake up!” I slapped him hard across the face. Still nothing.

I started on rescue breaths. I was on my third breath when Ben twitched. His eyelids fluttered open. I sat back on my heels, tears blurring my vision.

“You’re okay,” I whispered, pulling his head onto my lap. My tears splashed onto his face. “Don’t do that again! You’re okay! Don’t do that again!” I said over and over.

Ben blinked at me, dazed, then rolled onto his stomach and retched, dopesick and trembling.

“We have to get you to a hospital,” I told him.

If there were enough opioids in his system, he could overdose again as soon as the naloxone wore off. The problem was, the hospital would report him to the police. He might go to jail. And what then? Would he talk?

No, of course not. Besides, I had Violeta’s scarf now. And information that would keep him quiet.

“Come on.” I grabbed Ben’s coat and yanked it on him, then put an arm under his armpits and helped him to his feet.

He staggered next to me, disoriented and weak, teeth chattering, as I guided him to the car. “V… V…”

“Shhh.” I heaved him into the front seat. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”