I shake my head. If she’s with some other guy, then things are so bad. Hannah doesn’t want anyone but Drew.

“Come on,” he growls as he turns and heads down the hall. He stops for just a second in front of a closed door, then pushes it open.

“What the fuck?” a guy yells as Drew storms in.

Terror and misery and a thousand unnameable things flash over Drew’s face, and then he lurches across the room. I run to follow him, barely seeing the shirtless guy who’s fallen off a bed onto the floor.

“Hannah,” Drew’s saying, already on his knees, leaning over the mattress. My sister’s lying on it, topless, and he’s shaking her. “Baby, wake up.”

I am screaming words and she’s not moving. I can’t, she’s—“NO.”

I reach into my bag for the Naloxone, but it’s not there. It’s not there.

“Drew, I don’t have it. The Naloxone. It must have fallen, I don’t know, I don’t have it—”

“911,” Drew says, not looking at me.

“I thought she was sleeping,” the guy says, staring at the bed. “Fuck. She was just—we were—”

Drew starts doing CPR, and I’m trying to unlock my phone, but my hands are shaking too bad. One of Nah’s arms is dangling toward the floor, and everything I ever thought I believed or knew goes out the window because I am praying to who or what I don’t know, but somebody has to be in fucking charge and I am praying praying praying to a God I don’t believe in.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My sister, she’s … I think she’s overdosed and—”

“Is your sister unconscious?”

“Yes,” I sob. “Yes.”

“Is she breathing?”

“I don’t know. Drew, is she breathing?”

He shakes his head, intent on his work. Ben’s in the room now, and I’m crying too hard to speak or think or hear, so he grabs the phone and talks to the woman on the other end and I fall next to Drew and grab Hannah’s hand, which is cold, the fingers tinged slightly blue, and I know what that means because I researched overdoses and my sister isn’t breathing.

“Hannah,” I whisper, my forehead falling to the pillow. “Hannah, please.”

Drew is working so hard, his mouth against hers, giving her all he can. “Come on, baby, come on,” he says, pumping her chest.

I turn to the guy. He’s staring at her, at us, but totally out of it.

“When did she stop breathing?” I shout.

“I don’t know, I … I thought she was sleeping, I don’t know. Look, I didn’t do anything, she just—”

Brain damage begins four minutes after loss of oxygen, death eight minutes after.