He’s wearing the same clothes he had on Friday. A white t-shirt and ripped jeans.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until Reggie brushes past me, rushing over to Waylon. He drops down in a crouch, reaches out, and pushes back Waylon’s dark hair.

He’s pale.

So fucking pale, almost gray.

And he looks thinner—gaunt. Like he hasn’t eaten in days. Maybe he hasn’t.

“Waylon?” Reggie says, giving his cheek a little slap. “Come on, buddy. Wake up.”

My chest tightens to the point of pain, and I can’t help but compare this scene to the one from Zayne’s dorm room all those months ago.

“Is he dead?”

I don’t realize that’s my flat, lifeless voice until I hear Ivy’s sharp inhale, and Reggie’s snapping his head toward me with a frown.

“No,” he says fiercely. His brow furrows with something I can’t place. “He’s breathing. He’s just passed out.”

I nod.

I watch as Reggie cups Waylon’s face—how his dark head droops to the side as Reggie tries to rouse him.

“Waylon, come on, open your eyes.” Another couple slaps—

A low moan has me ripping out of my stupor.

I drop down next to Reggie just as Waylon manages to crack open an eye.

His face bunches as if he’s in pain and he tries to pull away. “G’way.”

Reggie nods to me. “Help me sit him up.”

Waylon’s practically dead weight as we lift him, propping him up against the building. His head slumps forward and he starts to fall over again. I quickly press alongside of him, keeping him upright. His skin is damp and icy to the touch.

Another low moan, almost a keen.

Reggie ducks down to meet his gaze as he holds his face up in his grease-stained hands. “Open your eyes.”

He must do what Reggie says because a moment later, Reggie’s frowning hard as he sweeps Waylon’s features. “What did you take?”

No response.

“He smells like a fucking distillery,” I mutter.

“And then some,” Reg says flatly.

My nose wrinkles as the pungent scent of piss and body odor register. Jesus fucking Christ.

“I-v-vy,” he mumbles, teeth chattering. At least he’s shivering now. That’s a good sign. I think.

I look up to Ivy’s wide green eyes. She looks about how I feel, horrified.

“She’s right here,” I tell him. I don’t miss how she doesn’t immediately rush over to soothe him.

His head lolls back as he now tries to turn his attention to me. His eyes seem to fight to focus. With his neck arched back, and the spotlight shining down on us from the roof, there’s no missing the stark red bruise on his pale neck. Right next to his pulse point.

I’m suddenly thrown back to the night of the storm.