“Where’s his room?” I ask.

Owen nods to the right and looks in a direction toward the end of the hall. I move closer to him and lift the wet towel from the floor, then pull my sweatshirt collar up over my nose and mouth, hiding the gagging I can’t help but do underneath. I reach for Owen, and he looks at my hand, his eyes blinking slowly. Everything in his expression shows his acceptance of the fact that he has run out of options, that he isn’t as strong as he pretends. His eyelids quiver as they close, Owen fighting not to feel the gravity of what is happening any more than he has to. He takes my hand finally, and lifts himself to stand with me, grabbing the towel from my hands and going to work cleaning up the mess from his brother’s frail, pale, and thin body.

He tosses it back into the hot water of the bathtub then turns to me. “I’ll deal with all of this shit later. Just…help me get him in his room,” he says, and I nod.

I won’t leave you, Owen.

We each take an arm, and James works to bring his legs under his body, his frame swaying awkwardly, his balance nonexistent. He probably weighs less than I do, his tall body is so thin, but his length makes it hard to direct him and move him the few feet it takes to get him to his room. He slips on the floor three times, each time fighting to grip our arms on the way down, his own swinging wildly. This must be how Owen got that bruise.

Once we get him to his bed, he grips the sheets and claws his way to the middle before finally letting his weak muscles give way to the coolness of the bed, his lips parted and dry. He looks half alive, and he’s shivering uncontrollably.

“Make it stop,” he says, the dull look on his face slowly melding into sorrow, then torture. Tears stream from his eyes, his nose running into the edge of the pillow, his head never making it to the top of the bed. “Owen, please. Make this stop! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…”

He keeps screaming, his hands clutching the fabric beneath him, fists grabbing blankets and pulling them to his chest. Owen fights to cover his body, the entire time James working against him, his arms jutting, his legs kicking.

Then Owen makes it all stop. He kicks his shoes from his feet and climbs into the bed next to his brother, pulling his flailing body into his arms, onto his lap and holding him to his chest, his arms flexing and working so very hard. At first, James pushes from him, fighting to get back to the bed, pulling and asking for the floor, to go outside, to get to his car. Every time he fights, Owen just pulls him to his chest harder, his chin resting on his brother’s head. Owen’s eyes find mine, locking on me. It feels as if I’m his anchor.

“You can do this, James. This is the hard part. You can do this; I’ve got you,” Owen says, over and over, until his brother’s body grows tired, and he starts to stare off into space—not asleep, but no longer fighting against him.

“I need you to call Ryan; I’m going to miss my game,” Owen says to me, his eyes full of regret, shame, disappointment—so many familiar emotions.

“What about your mom?” I ask. This isn’t fair, and Owen shouldn’t have to give up something for this.

It isn’t fair.

“She had to work. She’ll lose her job if she doesn’t show up. She’s…she’s called in for this before. Last time was the last time, according to her boss,” Owen says, his eyes starting to show his exhaustion.

“Owen…” I say, my head falling to the side, not wanting to see him lose so much, to hurt so much. His brother’s pain is killing him.

“He’s in withdrawal. If I leave him, he’s just going to do something worse. I…can’t…” Owen doesn’t finish his words; instead, swallowing hard, fighting to keep the water I see building in his eyes from falling, to make the redness in his eyes go away. He wants to stay strong, to stay hard, to stay dark.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, looking at him long enough for him to believe that I will be right back. But I don’t go to his room, to his phone. I don’t call Ryan. Instead, I leave his house and walk into my own hell, to my parents who are sitting in my kitchen at opposite ends of the counter, not speaking, but waiting for me. They’ve been waiting long enough when I step in the house, the first words from my father’s mouth are asking what’s taken me so long, followed by accusations that my mother doesn’t know how to take care of me. Within seconds, they’re bickering with one another, not looking at me at all, and if it were any other moment, I would turn around and leave.

But I can’t. I can’t, because I need my mom. She is the only person who can help Owen.