The yellow house appears at the end of a dead-end street.
Even in the dark, I can see the peeling paint, the sagging porch, and the broken windows covered with plastic.
A house that's given up, just like the people inside it.
Three guys huddled on the porch straighten as I kill the engine.
WVU dropouts playing gangster, judging by their faded university hoodies and nervous eyes.
They know what my cut means, and they’d better not say the wrong fucking thing to me right now.
"Which room?" I demand, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Upstairs, end of the hall," one mutters, avoiding eye contact. "She was with Twitch, but he split when she started seizing."
I push past them, taking the rotting steps two at a time.
The stench hits me immediately—mold from the recent flooding, urine, vomit, and the sickly-sweet smell of meth cooking somewhere.
The floorboards creak dangerously beneath my boots.
The hallway is dark, lit only by a battery-powered lantern casting shadows across peeling Mountaineer football wallpaper, blue and gold faded to gray.
The door at the end is partially open.
I find her on a bare mattress, curled on her side, needle still hanging from her arm.
"Fuck, Vanna."
She doesn't respond.
Her skin has the gray-blue tint I've seen too many times in this war-ravaged state.
West Virginia's latest conflict isn't fought in coal mines but in veins, the casualties piling up faster than the old mining disasters ever claimed.
I drop to my knees beside her, pressing fingers to her neck.
Her pulse is there, but weak, erratic.
Shallow breaths barely move her chest.
"Savannah," I try again, using her full name as I shake her shoulder. "Vanna, wake up."
Nothing.
I pull the needle from her arm, tossing it aside.
She's so fucking thin, her once-lucious, curvy body now just bones wrapped in paper-thin skin.
Her arms are tracked with needle marks, some fresh, some scarred over.
Seven years married, and the woman before me is a stranger wearing my wife's face.
I pull out my phone, dialing 911 as I roll her onto her back, tilting her head to keep her airway open.
"911, where is your emergency?"
"Overdose," I say, voice clipped. "Yellow house on Maple, near Sabraton. Female, late twenties, unconscious but breathing."
