“Is it ready yet?”

            “Almost.”

            “Come on man, Hurry up.”

            Wisps of smoke rose from the spoon, it smelled like skunky vinegar.

            “Alright, we’re cooked.”

            “Prep it man, fuckin prep it! I’m crawling outa my fuckin skin over here.”

            Dog picked up an empty syringe and dipped the tip in the spoon, he pulled back the plunger and drew the dark liquid into the chamber with practiced hands. “It’s ready.”

            The man sitting next to him on the floor rubbed his hands together, no, not a man. Dog stared at him. He wore track pants and a University of Chicago t-shirt. Dog figured the guy couldn’t have been more than nineteen years old, maybe a freshman in college, but his face looked far older. Deep lines crossed weathered skin covered by a collection moles and scabs. There were smudges of dirt too, as if the kid hadn’t bathed in a week. It was the face of a junkie, an addict, and Dog knew his own face was far worse.

            The kid had already wrapped his upper arm with a belt and was squeezing his fist repeatedly to summon long abused blood vessels once again to the surface. Dog held the syringe up to the light, tapped it and squeezed out a drop of liquid to get out all the bubbles from the chamber. He then brought the needle to the kid’s brachial artery, behind the elbow, just at the top of the forearm, and inserted it. A pained hiss escaped from the boy’s lips.

            “You know this is gonna kill you.”

            “Hey man, it’s my fuckin life and I can do what I want with it. You got your money, I want my H.”