Wren didn’t even realize he was crying until he reached up and felt the damp on his face. The whole thing, this whole story—and he hoped to God it was just that, a story, but he knew it wasn’t, knew it deep in his gut—depressed him, making him feel more helpless and vulnerable.
Why wouldn’t Rufus come back? Wren had a need to help him, even if Rufus wasn’t aware of what he was doing.
What emerged on those pages had not been the portrait of an addict but a picture of a very lonely young man who was desperate for contact and didn’t know how to get it. It made Wren’s heart ache, both from sympathy and empathy. He himself had stayed away from the allure of drugs, but he’d had his chances, and who’s to say he wouldn’t one day fall into the same traps Rufus had?
He wouldn’t now.
Rufus, witho
