Shut up, you’re going to get it! she reviled that hungry inner voice she recognized as her addictive self, and she turned the corner to the front of the remote lines of storage garages. In the old days, the best dealers set up shop there, so she was not a stranger to this place.
She got out of the car and continued on foot in the zigzagging maze. The memories and those unmistakable signs—used needles, lost plastic bags and tins, empty lighters used to boil the stuff—led her to the destination.
For a moment she really hated herself and hesitated to go on. She leaned against the wall, waiting to regain her breath and stop retching. “You don’t need to start this again!” she scolded herself, hitting her head against the wall several times. But her resistance only induced more internal inclin
