He took off his jacket and fished a syringe, a lighter, a spoon, and a small packet of heroin from one pocket. He removed a thin, six-inch rubber hose from the other pocket and tossed the jacket across the floor. His eyes wide with anticipation, he dumped the powder into the spoon and cooked it with the lighter. When the powder turned to liquid, he placed it on the floor beside him. Then he tied the hose around his upper arm with one hand and pulled it taut with his teeth.

It had been more than eight hours since his last fix, and desperation was beginning to set in. He bit his bottom lip as he smacked the crook of his arm with his free hand, praying that a vein would rise to the surface. He was about to lose hope when he spotted a thin blue line on his arm. Quickly, he reached for the needle and filled it with the heroin from the spoon. Plunging it into his arm, he emptied the syringe of its contents, and emptied himself of his soul.

His eyes rolled back, and he felt incredible warmth envelop his body. His spirit seemed to float above him, and his mind wandered freely through the fantasies it liked best. Then something went wrong. The slice of heaven he normally attained felt like a burning hell. He reached for his throat as his windpipe began to constrict. He reached for his eyes, which suddenly filled with tears, and he envisioned the friend he’d grown up with in North Dakota.

In his mind, they were children again, running through a field with their hair blowing in the wind. They were laughing like the kids he’d heard on the playground, their voices united in a moment of unbridled joy.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to leave the memory behind. His mind obliged him and leaped forward to the day he’d come to Philadelphia to study at Drexel. It leaped again to the moment he’d invited his childhood friend to join him. The final leap took him to the scene in the apartment that morning. Not even his tightly closed eyes could hold back the tears.

Filled with the shame and self-loathing that he’d ignored since obeying the angel’s most recent order, he cried through the haze of the heroin and wished the tears could wash away the pain he felt inside.

He sobbed quietly, his mind floating in the grief that not even the drugs could mask. He wanted the images from that morning to go away. They didn’t. In fact, they got stronger.

“Why are you crying, Steven?” said a familiar voice.

The words came out slow and thick, spoken as if they’d rolled off a swollen tongue.