I’m starting to get aggravated, when I notice that May’s not acting normal. Not that I’m sure what her normal is, of course, but she has her eyes closed and she’s teetering back and forth like she can’t quite find her center of gravity. For a moment I’m entranced—she’s beautiful, almost serene—but all of a sudden, her face pales.

She tips backward, and for a second I’m not sure what’s happening, but then my body reacts without consulting with my brain. I bolt to her side and wrap my arm around her shoulders to steady her toppling frame. Her eyes are blank, unfocused, staring at nothing. It’s freaky. A shiver goes down my spine.

“May.” My mouth is centimeters from her face, but I don’t want to be an inappropriate jerk and think about that right now. “Are you okay?” I look around the room for help, but no one seems to notice that there’s a girl fainting in the middle of the crowd. I tighten my grip on her shoulders and see a pocket of space farther down the bar, and an open stool.

I prop her under my arm and drag her over. My arm is killing me by the time we get there, but at least she’s still on her feet.

“Sit here.” I pat the stool.

Her eyes have an empty expression in them. I push her onto the seat and wave to the bartender, down at the other side of the bar.

When he comes over, he takes one look at May and raises his eyebrows. “Dude, is your girl okay?” He’s a typical indie kid—tight black jeans, a sleeve of tattoos, and a very LA haircut.

I lean across the bar and shout, “She’s fine. Can we get some water, please?”

He pauses, considers May’s floppy form, and then reaches down and grabs a dripping bottle of water, which he plops onto the bar in front of him. “That’ll be seven dollars.”

I stare at him for a beat, because excuse me—you have got to be kidding with that price. But I don’t have much of a choice, so I grumble and dig into my pockets for a ten-dollar bill.

As the bartender hands me a paltry amount of change, he says, “Dude, just so you know, management doesn’t look kindly on drugs in the club,” and shoots a look at May that’s supposed to, I assume, convey all this meaning.

“She’s not on drugs, man.”

He cocks an eyebrow and smirks. He clearly doesn’t believe me, but he also obviously doesn’t really care, because a second later he turns to get the order of the girl next to me and starts flirting hard-core with her.

I grit my teeth and turn back to May, holding out the bottle. “Can you drink this?”