I flattened my palm on the door and pushed, fighting the grimace that came to my face. My eyes swept over the interior, a trashed living room with two green couches as old as sin. “Hello? Anyone home?”
I waited, heard nothing. I called out one more time. Again, no answer.
“Is it bad?” He asked.
“Yeah, man.” My heart twisted for Tag and Cooper. “It’s bad.”
His eyes held mine. “Do we…go in?”
“No,Igo in while you stand there and think about how much you love Cooper.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes, working to keep the edge out of my sarcasm. I should’ve kicked his heroism out of the truck while I had the chance.
I stepped inside, the aged floor joists creaking beneath my feet. “Cooper?”
There was not a single running machine in the house, no moving air, no lights even. I quickly deduced this place probably had the utilities cut off weeks ago. I squinted in the low light, watching my step and scanning nearby furniture for any movement.
I made my way through a kitchen where drug paraphernalia littered the counter tops. Crack pipes, needles, lighters—so much. A seething curse slipped from my lips as a surge of emotion pricked behind my eyes. I blinked a few times.
“Cooper?” My voice wavered as I sent up a quiet prayer that Cooper hadn’t partook of the offerings here. For a moment, I wondered if I’d ever been too hard on him, if I could have shown him more kindness and mercy. If these were Cooper’s roots, he’d come a long,longway, and we should all be a lot more proud.
And not take the fact he was living and breathing for granted.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, pushing into a small bedroom at the back of the house. A double bed in the center of the room had two lumps beneath the covers. I tiptoed close enough to confirm it wasn’t him. An older couple, mid-fifties.
I knew the woman was probably Janice, but I didn’t want to entertain the thought of her being my best friend’s mother. They were snoring, completely unaware of the intruder in their home.
Most likely strung out, if the counter top was any indication.
I turned to search the house a few more minutes when Tag’s ear-splitting yell pierced the quiet house. “Jesse!”
I bolted through the house, drew my gun, and rushed out the front door to find Tag squatting in the bed of the Ford Ranger. He leaned down, yelling my name on repeat. Seeing no threat, I shoved my gun back into my holster and braced my palms on the side of the truck bed, using my momentum to heave my body inside. The truck lurched under my weight as Tag pulled a very pale Cooper into his lap.
“I don’t know if he’s breathin’!”
Cooper’s face was white as a sheet, his lips blue-tinged. His ash brown hair was matted with sweat—eyes wide open, pupils pinpricks. His jeans and t-shirt were stained, damp, and disgusting. The entire truck bed smelled like a two day bender, the scent of alcohol, urine, and vomit so strong my stomach jolted and my eyes watered.
“Coop!” Tag lightly smacked Cooper’s cheeks, but his eyes stared past him toward the sky—unblinking, unseeing.
After dialing 911, I shoved my phone into Tag’s hands then reached for Cooper’s wrists, searching for a pulse. It was there—barely.
When I leaned my head down to feel for some sort of exhale, I realized vomit coated his neck. I didn’t know a damn thing about first aid, but I did know that someone throwing up while passed out was bad news. Instinctively, I grabbed his shoulders, rolling him out of Tag’s lap and onto his side. Sure enough, leftover vomit dribbled out of his mouth.
Reality hit me like a freight train.
Cooper was going to die.
My hands started to shake as I held Cooper steady and lightly rapped on his back like he was a baby or something. What was I even doing? I was way out of my depth—two left hands, all thumbs.
Tag gave the dispatcher our address.
My eyes scanned the truck bed, looking for things I could tell the paramedics when they arrived. First, liquor bottles. Of the two I could see, one was a medium-sized bottle of Everclear. There were no other water bottles, soda cans, nothing. I didn’t know anyone who would drink something that strong—straight—for kicks. Most experienced drinkers knew consuming 190 proof liquors was a gamble with your life unless you diluted it a lot.
And Cooper was an experienced drinker if there ever was one.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
Second, there was a needle on the truck’s toolbox.
Third, his arm. I’d seen it multiple times—the scarring there. But the spandex sleeve he usually wore to cover it was rolled down to his wrist like a bracelet, three brand new cigarette burns oozing and festering—three fresh red polka dots over old, pink and white scar tissue.
