Casey had not intended to take the drugs. She had planned to ignore Walker and had nearly thrown the baggie away a dozen times. Then she had texted her friend Missy, who told her she would be crazy to toss it. And each time the little bag dangled over a toilet or sink, she could not bring herself to dump it.

Walker: Did you try it?

Casey: No.

Walker: But you want to. I know you, girl. What would one time hurt?

Casey: I’ve been clean for two months.

Walker: You can handle this. Live a little.

When Casey did not respond, he added, I can hear your brain working.

Casey: I want to be good.

Walker: You are good, baby. Park in the alley, like you used to. It’s safe there. And I’m close if you need me.

Casey: Maybe.

Maybe she had been expecting a moment like this all along. Otherwise, why keep two phones—one for her mother and the one Walker had just texted on.

She should toss the second phone and the drugs. But there were still thirty-three minutes left on the dealer phone, and it seemed wasteful to toss it. And sobriety was hard, and she never knew when she might need a break from the stress. Walker had once called keeping a stash hedging her bets.

When she finally crossed a mental line, she sneaked out of her mother’s house, called an Uber, and rode into Austin to Seventh Street. Out of the car, she saw a couple of sex workers on the corner, talking to potential clients. Music from a bar pulsed.

“Casey, is that you?” one of the girls shouted.

Casey did not respond.

“Good to have you back, girl.” Laughter rumbled around them. “Walker is going to be glad to have you back.”

Gripping the handle of her purse, Casey walked toward the old building where she used to hang out. It was an abandoned retail store. The racks, counters, and display shelves had long been stripped, and in their places now were crates and a few mattresses. A few people huddled in corners, each staring at her, but she kept her gaze averted, her purse clutched tightly to her body. She found an empty corner, sat, and pressed her back to the wall. She unfurled her fist and stared at the powder. She could handle one hit.

One hit will not hurt.

Just one.

You can handle this.

Her drug counselor, Dr. Malone, always said the devil’s voice was so sweet it could convince anyone of anything. He had warned against listening.

But she did not see the harm in using this one time.

Just once, and then she would be back on the straight and narrow.

It took less than five minutes to heat up and inject the drug into her vein. Immediately, it hit her system, and her head fell back against the wall.