"In here. Hurry. Oh G.o.d, Dad!"

"Oh sweet Jesus." He was down beside her in an instant.

"I found him-he was alive. Then he stopped breathing." The muscles in

her arms screamed as she continued to pump. "The ambulance. Did she

call the ambulance?"

"She called Pete. Got us on his car phone."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit. I told her to call an ambulance. He needs an ambulance."

Her head flashed up, her eyes met Pete's. "d.a.m.n you, can't you see he's

going to die if he doesn't get help? Call."

He nodded. He had no intention of calling an ambulance. A public

ambulance. But instead, walked quickly to phone a discreet and very

private clinic.

"Stop, Emma. Stop, he's breathing."

"can't-11

Brian took her arms, felt the muscles tremble. "You've done it, baby.

He's breathing."

Dazed, she stared down at the shallow but steady rise and fall of

Stevie's chest.

SomETimEs HE SCREAMED. Sometimes he cried. While Stevie's body

detoxed, new pains snuck in. Little imps of torment, pulsing in the

abscesses along his arms, in the tender flesh he'd abused-between his

toes, in his groin. They capered along his skin, first hot, then cold.

He could see them, sometimes he could actually see them, with their tiny

red eyes and hungry mouths, tap-dancing over his body before they

plunged their teeth into him.

Hysteria would follow, with a manic strength that forced the staff to

restrain him to the bed. Then he would become quiet, descend into an

almost trancelike state where he would stare for hours on end at a

single spot on the wall.

When he lapsed into those long silences, he would remember drifting,

peacefully, painlessly. Then Emma's voice, angry, hurt, frightened,

demanding that he come back. And he had. Then there had been pain

again, and no peace at all.

He begged whoever was in the room with him to let him go, to score

for him. He promised outrageous amounts of money then swore viciously

when his demands went unanswered. He didn't want to come back to the

world of the living. When he refused to eat, they fed him through a

tube.

They used an antihypertensive medication to trick his brain into

believing he wasn't going cold turkey. With that they mixed naltrexone,

a nonaddicting opiate antagonist to make his body believe he wasn't

getting high. Stevie craved the seductive hazy escape of heroin and the

quick buzz of cocaine.

He was rarely alone, but detested and feared even a ten-minute span of

solitude. In those moments, it would be only him and the machines that

hummed and grumbled in response to his vital signs.

After two weeks he quieted. But he also became sly. He would wait them

out-the tight-lipped b.a.s.t.a.r.ds that had put him here. He would eat his

fruit and vegetables, he would smile and answer all their questions. He

would lie to the pretty, cool-eyed psychiatrist. Then he would get out.