"You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved," she says finally, wiping at her eyes.
"I know." I finish the coffee, crushing the cup in my fist. "But I can make sure she doesn't die alone."
It's the Appalachian way—you don't abandon your own, even when it's killing you.
Loyalty to a fault, our mother used to call it—the Mercer family curse.
When I return to Vanna's room, shift change has brought fresh nurses with West Virginia-shaped pins on their lanyards.
The local radio station plays softly in the background—John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads," the unofficial state anthem that every kid here learns before they can talk.
Vanna's eyes are already calculating, fingers twitching against the sheets.
I've seen this before—the moment the fear of death recedes, replaced by the desperate need for the next high.
I reach into my wallet, removing the emergency cash I keep there.
Five hundred dollars meant for a new transmission part.
I slide it into her hand, folding her fingers around it.
"Don't take this wrong," I say quietly, "but at least get clean shit. That dealer on Walnut Street. No one else. This shit they're cutting with fentanyl will kill you, and I don’t want you dead, Van. I don’t…fuck, I don’t want you to die."
Her eyes meet mine, a flicker of the old Vanna visible for just a moment. "Why don't you hate me, Garrett? After everything?"
"Because I can't."
It's the truth, simple and devastating. Seventeen years of loving Savannah Smith—ever since I was a nine year old little boy and she just moved here with her family.
Nothing will make me stop loving her, and maybe that makes me the biggest fool in Morgantown, but it's who I am.
I press a kiss to her forehead, memorizing the feeling, knowing it might be the last time. "Call me when you're discharged."
She nods, already distant, the money clutched tight in her fist.
We both know the cycle—she'll be using again within hours of leaving the hospital, chasing the high until it nearly kills her, then I'll get another call from another trap house.
The morning shift doctor enters as I'm leaving, clipboard in hand. "Mr. Mercer, we should discuss your wife's treatment options. There's an excellent recovery program at?—"
"She's not interested," I cut him off. "But thank you."
He looks between us, understanding what’s going on—she doesn’t want help, and trying to force it on me gets her nowhere.
"I'll have the discharge papers prepared," he says finally. "Mrs. Mercer, please consider the resources we've provided."
Vanna nods, not meeting his gaze.
We all know those pamphlets will be in the trash before she reaches the hospital doors.
I leave the hospital, leaving my wife there, and ride slowly back toward the club, passing coal miners starting their day shift, heading to the few remaining operations outside town.
Their faces are already marked with the black dust that will eventually fill their lungs. Different poison, same result.
By the time I’m back at the club and park my bike, I've locked it all away—the fear, the grief, the helpless rage.
My brothers will see nothing but Bloodhound, the cold, reliable Sergeant at Arms who handles problems without any emotion.
The name fits.
