She grasped the edge of the bathtub and tried to pull up to a sitting position. Her arms and legs felt like spaghetti, and her head was throbbing. She sank back onto the floor, sobbing with frustration. Minutes passed, or maybe hours. She wasn’t sure.

Her stomach cramped again and she clung to the commode, hanging her head over the side. She reached for a towel and mopped her face with it. She heard the faint ringing of her phone from the other room. Where was it? The kitchen? Living room? Her head was so fuzzy.

She sat up slowly and tried again to pull herself up. This time, she made it, although the stabbing pain in her knee reminded her of the ordeal she’d recently put it through. She clung to the towel bar and lurched forward, grasping the edge of the doorway for stability. Then, slowly, down the narrow hallway, stopping every few inches, until she reached the living room.

By the time she flopped down onto the sofa, the ringing had stopped, and she had no idea where the phone actually was. Her stomach cramped again and she prayed that the feeling would subside, because she had no strength to make it back to the bathroom.

She was lying on the sofa when the doorbell rang. She tried to sit up but was too weak. It rang a second time, and then a third. “Help,” she whispered, her breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

A man’s voice called out, impatient. “Drue? You home? Drue? It’s Jonah.”

“I’m here,” she tried to call. But the words came out as little more than a whimper.

“Okay, damnit,” he called. “I can take a hint. But you could have at least let me know you changed your mind about going out before I drove out here tonight.”

She heard a second voice now, another man.

“Hey Drue?” He knocked on the door. “Hey Drue, it’s Corey. You home?” She heard the two men conversing in low tones, but was still too weak to get to the door. She heard the doorknob turn and then rattle. It was locked!

More muffled conversation. And then nothing. Drue rolled onto her side. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t speak.

And then she heard the sliding-glass door, catching in the track, then slowly, agonizingly slow, someone shoved it open.

“Drue!” Corey and Jonah looked down at her.

“My God, what happened?” Corey asked, kneeling on the floor beside the sofa.

“Sick,” she croaked. “Can’t … can’t…”

He pressed his fingertips to her neck, near her jaw, then bent his head to her chest and listened. He looked back at Jonah. “Her pulse is weak and her heartbeat is faint and her skin is clammy. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s overdosed. Call nine-one-one.”

She passed out.

“Drue? Drue? Come on, friend. Time to wake up.” Hands patted her face.