“Stella!” Costa jars me enough that I pull my hand away. “Listen to me. It’s just the blood getting you crazy. And Sam reeks of death. It’s making you trippy. Just shake it off, okay? Shake it off.”
I nod.
“Bandage up his wrist,” he says sternly. “Do it now.”
So, I do. It seems to take eons, but I do it.
“Now, get out of the room. Go outside, and wait for me. You need fresh air.”
Some piece of me knows he’s right, so I get up and walk through my fog and out the door to the porch. The salt smell hits me hard, clearing my nose and throat, letting reality seep back in.
“Shut the door,” Costa says. “And go wash your hands.”
I feel better already—embarrassed but more myself.
Costa is still on top of Sam, and he’s talking. I don’t know what he’s saying, but he looks calm and even. For twenty minutes, I watch through the door window as Costa talks, and finally, Sam’s body relaxes until he’s not struggling at all. I take a step back when Costa releases Sam’s arms, but Sam just lifts his wrists and looks at them. He shakes his head and puts an arm over his face. Then, Sam holds out a hand, and Costa takes it in his. They stay silent and unmoving— just holding hands and breathing—and eventually, I walk away.
Later, when it’s dark out, Costa calls to me.
“I’m up here,” I answer.
“Where? Are you on the roof?”
“Yeah.”
I hear Costa stepping up the ladder to reach me. “You’re as crazy as we are, huh?”
“Good spot to stargaze,” I say blandly.
He makes his way up the sharp angle of tiles on the roof to the small flat spot I’m sitting on and hands me a beer. “Good place to fall off and break your neck.”
I don’t acknowledge how appealing that sounds, but I gladly take the beer.
He studies me for a minute. “Oh. You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You need a fix.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. How’s Sam?”
“Dead asleep.” Bright moonlight shows me the smile that he flashes. “Pardon the overly appropriate clichéd phrase.”
“You’re a riot.” The beer tastes beyond good right now. “Costa, what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He hangs his hands over his bent knees and swings his beer. “I really don’t know. He could be detoxing like this for days. I’ve never seen it this bad. He has to stop tripping, but he alsocan’tstop tripping. Toby…I mean, it’s forToby, you know? How do I tell Sam that I’m giving up on my kid, so he should quit?”
“You can’t,” I agree.
“But he has to get sober and strong again.”
“And we have to figure out why this isn’t working. It seemed like it would be so easy to nail down his power. We got all those others without even trying.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asks.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Your hand is shaking.”
