An excerpt from Nico Walker's book Cherry.
Emily's gone to take a shower. The room's half-dark and I'm getting dressed, looking for a shirt with no blood on it, not having any luck. The pants are fucked too—cigarette burns in the crotches. All heroin chic, like I were famous already.
I go downstairs. Livinia pissed in the living room. There's a lake of piss. I say, "Livinia, goddamn," yet low enough that she won't hear me. She's a good dog; just we've been some fucks about house-training her. I get the paper towels and a bottle of spray. There's a pack of Pall Malls on the kitchen counter. I shake one loose and light it on the stove. I check the rigs in the cupboard. The rigs in the cupboard are all blood-used and crooked, like instruments of torture. And there are two lengths of nylon in the cupboard, and a box of Q-tips and a digital scale, two spoons with old cottons in them. The needles on the rigs are dull, but they'll have to do. Emily has to be at school by ten, and it'll be a close-run thing. There won't be time to buy new rigs till afterward.
It's twenty to nine but I think we'll make it. Black should be on time today, and he'll have something for us, so I'm not worried. I soak the piss up with the paper towels. I wipe the spot down with disinfectant, throw the used paper towels away.
Black pulls up in the driveway, and I let him in the side door. He hands me a .45-caliber pistol wrapped in a blue rag; and I say, "Let me hold another gram."
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