ive me another hit.”
Jamie held out his hand, expecting someone would put a pipe into it. But his fingers just hung there, empty.
“That’s it, man,” said Donnie, the guy whose mother owned the cabin.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said the red-headed guy, Travis. “There’s got to be something else here, somewhere.”
Travis, whose eyes were looking as red as his hair, hopped up from the torn black leatherette couch and began pawing through the litter of plastic soda bottles and unbleached coffee filters, baggies and empty cold medicine packages, hunting down an overlooked kernel of crank they’d been cooking up in the kitchen, or bud of marijuana they’d been growing out the back door. The longer he searched, the more agitated he grew, flinging the filters up in the air, scattering the soda bottles across the floor.
“Chill, dude,” Jamie said.
This was why he wanted to keep his crank consumption under control. He was doing pretty well at it too; he was proud of himself for that. It was probably because he was far more intelligent than your average meth head. He remembered half these tweakers from kindergarten. They were stupid then, running around in circles until they fell on the floor, just like Travis there.
“What are we gonna do?” said Travis.
“I’m gonna go see DaShawn,” said Donnie. Donnie’s mom thought it was nice that Donnie brought his friends up there to hunt and fish. Said she was glad the place was getting some use, now that she’d moved down to Mobile. “Anybody coming?”
“I’ll go with you,” said Tiff, who danced down at the Go Go with Taryn. Wait a minute: Where was Taryn? She’d never shown up — was that last night? The night before? It was hard to keep it straight.
Jamie should get out of here too. Go see what had happened to Taryn. Check in on the old man. Change shirts.
Plus, he had the nagging feeling he was forgetting something else. Something important. What was it? He cycled again through the list of possibilities: Taryn, Dad, cats….
Ah, fuck it. If it was important enough, someone else would do it.