“It’s shit, but it’s not nothing,” she said, unwrapping a twist of plastic.

We each had a bump. It was shit, dirty and speedy. A grain of it lodged in my sinus cavity. It hurt. I tried not to touch the walls in the filthy men’s room, which made no sense because I undoubtedly had already snorted up whatever diseases were in there, along with the rat poison in the coke. I relaxed against the damp concrete. I was so tired of worrying about everything. It was good to surrender. I gritted my teeth. It was good.

We went to Audrey’s place. She lived nearby, on the first floor of a shabby apartment complex. Her unit was bland and cheap, carpeted in beige. A thrift-store couch upholstered in pink and mauve floral tapestry stood against a windowless wall. The walls were bare, the furniture buried under clothes, magazines, half-drunk Diet Cokes.

I made an attempt to clear the table, piling crumpled receipts and dirty dishes and envelopes of Val-Pak coupons. Audrey plugged in her phone, then poured two big glasses of vodka over ice and brought them to the kitchen table. She set to work chopping the rest of the coke, smashing the crystals into dust. She held her hair and did a line before sliding the plate to me. I was glad to see her looking more like herself.

“Guess I’ll have to find another gig now,” she said.

I hadn’t thought about the fact that she’d be out of a job. “What will you do?” I asked.

“He’s not the only dude around with a video camera.”

“My old job is probably hiring. You could be a barista.”

“Yeah, perfect,” she said. “You’re hilarious.” She snorted another line. “This friend of mine moved to Phoenix. She said the money’s great, dancing. And it’s not humid.”

“Humidity’s good for your complexion. I read somewhere it prevents wrinkles.”

“Who cares?” she said. “It’s not like we’re gonna get old.”

I wanted to argue with that, but then I thought of Danielle, and Brandon. My mom was thirty-nine when she died. Why would I think we’d be any different?

“We should go,” Audrey said. “You and me. Why not?”

“Phoenix?” I said. It sounded like nowhere.

“Okay, how about Alaska? Brazil? Wherever.”

“I don’t have a passport,” I said.

“Me, either. We could try California. Out west. This town is such a shithole. We could leave right now and be in El Paso in twelve hours. We’re high, we won’t get sleepy. Besides. What’s here for me anymore?”

I looked up, moved by the desolation in her tone.

“I’ve always lived here,” I said.

“God, I’ve been everywhere. I don’t think I’ve stayed anyplace a whole year since I was fifteen.”

“After your mom died?”

“Yeah. And my stepdad died that same year.”

“You didn’t tell me that before. How awful.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t care. I hated him.”

“Why? What was he like?”

“He was a drunk fucking asshole. He started fucking me as soon as my mom went in the hospital.”