The way the light fills this sad little room and its barren windows, too high for him to see out of properly, makes him think it’s been about four hours since he missed his morning dose. Well over twenty-four hours since he took anything, then.
They’re all in his rucksack. He doesn’t know where that is. He wonders if he’ll be alive to experience the worst parts of withdrawal. He’s already feeling the quick-release tension of his muscles, springs under his skin as he twitches at odd intervals.
Withdrawal is going to suck.
Mason does a weird thing, then. Reza is still on the floor, swallowing a trace of blood—not enough to make him sick, never enough to make him sick—and the man crawls over top of him like a blanket, lowering himself until he’s pressing down with one of Reza’s shoulders d
