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“Leaf!” José called impatiently.

“A few lines should do,” he mumbled, exhaling the smoke.

“Okay! What are you waiting for?” José said. “Time for drugs! The soundcheck is waiting.” When Leaf didn’t move, José’s tone changed. “Please. If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for Tristan.”

Leaf surveyed the spread-out supplies on the table, struck by the absurdity of the situation. José’s encouragement to take drugs highlighted how deeply things had spiraled out of control. What kind of understanding had José shown him all these years? Leaf gazed at his friend, pondering this question. “Why are you doing this?”

“We’ll handle it. One step at a time. I know the music means a lot to you. It’s more important than this,” José said, gesturing at the stash of drugs. “But we have a gig tonight. One where we can prove to the world—and we have to—that we still rock.”

Leaf paused, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah,” José added. “The press was pretty brazen this week. It wasn’t all that funny or entertaining; you didn’t miss much.”

“Alright.”

José squeezed Leaf’s shoulder and stepped out onto the balcony.

With effort, Leaf pushed himself upright and rested his elbows on his knees. He took one final drag from his cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray. As he reached for the baggie of cocaine, a part of him hesitated.

This is so wrong.

He prepared two lines and stared at his handiwork. Every fiber of his being craved the substance. Yet, amidst the craving, there was a voice deep within him crying out for help—a quiet, desperate, and wounded voice.

Leaf fought back tears as he recognized that quiet plea for help. It was his own voice, barely audible but becoming fainter with time.

It had never happened so quickly before. And then the overdose.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

No, I can’t do this alone.

I can’t keep fooling myself.

I need help.

Stunned, he wiped his cheeks dry and pulled himself together.

But one step at a time.

I need to talk to Tristan.

He can help me. He knows what to do.

This plan gave him a sense of confidence and reassurance. As he snorted the cocaine, his spirits soon revived, and that wonderful tingling sensation returned to his skin.

I can do this.

After Leaf showered and shaved, he threw on fresh clothes and tied his hair back. He slipped on sunglasses and gathered his belongings, stuffing pills, powder, and a guitar pick into his back pocket. He tucked the lighter into the cigarette pack, then stashed it, along with his phone and wallet, inside his jacket’s inner pocket. Despite the sweltering heat outside, the air conditioning was cranked up everywhere.

On the balcony, Leaf hung the jacket over the back of a chair and stood across from José, who was sitting with his hands behind his head, soaking in the breeze, waiting for the cue to leave.

Leaf lit a cigarette and leaned against the doorframe. Thanks to the cocaine, he no longer felt like he had been run over by a tank. He wasn’t afraid either. Mentally, he checked if he had enough supplies with him; they had to last at least until after the show.

“You look better. Got some color back in your face. How do you feel?”

Leaf glanced at José suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. A brief nod, almost just a twitch, was all he could manage. He knew it was only temporary. Still, he was in good spirits.

I’ll talk to Tristan.