She pushed open the adjoining door.

Blood. And sickness. And urine. The stench had her stumbling back,

gagging. She felt the bile rush up her throat, stared at the red and

gray spots that danced in front of her eyes. She fell against the

stereo, sending the needle raking across the vinyl. The sudden silence

hit her like a slap. On a cry of alarm, she rushed forward to bend over

the body sprawled on the floor.

He was naked, and so cold. Terrified, she heaved until she turned him

onto his back. She saw the syringe, and the revolver.

"No. Oh G.o.d, no." Panicked, she searched for a wound, then for a pulse.

She found the first, but it was only the tragic marks of the needle. The

sob burst out of her when she found the second, faint and delicate, at

his throat.

"Stevie, oh G.o.d, Stevie, what have you done?"

She raced to the doorway, to the top of the stairs. "Call an

ambulance!" she screamed. "Call a b.l.o.o.d.y ambulance, and hurry!"

As she ran back, she tore the quilt from the bed to cover him. His face

was the color of paste made from water and ashes. The sight of it, of

his skin still smeared with blood from the needle, terrified her more

than his deathlike stillness. On his forehead, just above his eyebrows,

was a nasty gash. s.n.a.t.c.hing a washcloth, she pressed it against the

wound.

When he was covered, she began to slap her open palm over his face.

"Wake up, G.o.dd.a.m.n you, Stevie. Wake up. I'm not going to let you die

this way." She shook him, slapped him, then broke down and wept against

his chest. Her stomach pitched and she bit down furiously on nausea.

"Please, please, please," she repeated, like a chant. She remembered

how Darren had been found, lying alone, a syringe on the turkey rug.

"No. No. You're not going to die on me." She stroked his hair, then

pressed her fingers against his throat again. This time there was

nothing.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" She shouted at him, then tossed the quilt aside and began

pumping on his frail chest. "You're not going to do this to me, to Dad,

to all of us." She pulled his mouth open to breathe into it, then

shifted back to push with the heels of her hands. "You hear me?

Stevie," she panted. "You come back."

She pushed the air from her lungs to his, pumped the thin and frail area

between his b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Threatening, pleading, cursing, she fought to pull

him back. The tile bit into her knees, but she didn't notice. So

intent was she on his face, on praying for one flicker of life, that she

forgot where she was. Memories scrambled through her head-of Stevie in

white, singing in the garden. Of him standing on stage, colored lights

and smoke, dragging feverish music from a six-string guitar. Board

games in front of the fire. An arm around her shoulders, and a teasing

question.

Who's the best, Emmy luy?

Only one clear thought ran over and over in her mind. She would not

lose someone else she loved this way, this useless way.

The sweat was rolling off her when she heard the footsteps running up

the stairs.