We were smoking molly off of tin foil through a plastic straw made from a pen in the public housing complex of a small town. It tasted like black licorice and the kind of bug-spray flavor that I’ve always associated with being poisoned. I was jammed. I couldn’t not be anymore. He took his hit and stared blankly at me. He fell sideways, shaking violently and jumped up as soon as he hit the floor. I almost panicked for a second thinking about walking into the hospital. Pin-***** pupils staring a medical professional in the face, trying to keep my head up from between my knees in the waiting room. He laughed. I laughed. We carried on this way. For some time, actually.