The relief was almost instantaneous. A dull warmth spreads through me, relaxing muscles I didn't realize were tensed. Gentle hands massage my skull and let my thoughts float through me like grains of sand in water. Above all, however, there was an overwhelming feeling of content. I felt as though I could wander to the ends of the earth and back, but at the same time didn't need to. I could stay sitting right there, and everything would be wonderful. I couldn't remember the last time I felt that, and I had no intention of letting it pass. 

I didn't notice when he arrived. He could have been standing at the mouth of the alley for hours for all I knew. I remember noticing a shadow out of the corner of my eye and rolling my head over to see Caleb standing there. He could see me, that much I was certain, but I didn't care. There was no shame or guilt. All he did was stand there and nothing more.

He approached me before long. Had I been in the right state of mind, I thought he was going to yell at me. At least until I would have seen his eyes. There wasn't any anger in them or fear or even hunger. All I saw were my own tired eyes staring back at me. 

He didn't say a word. Instead, he slowly reached down to pluck out the needles sticking out of my arm, refilled it, and then joined me in unrequited bliss.

 Things only got worse from there. Every other night you would find us lying in some dumpster or an abandoned apartment, needles in our arms and smiles on our faces. We kept promising to each other that this would be our last dose and after, we'd stand ourselves up and get to work. Every single time we told ourselves that, and every single time, we lied. Over time, our tolerance built up so much that we had to start taking harder and larger doses. On a few occasions, we shot up even while we were still in the middle of another high. But we still had each other.

There wasn't much we could have done besides make sure the other didn't choke on their own vomit, but we still did it. We made sure to never shoot up alone and made sure we only ever used the same needle. We even worked together to collect the funds needed to sustain our habit. It never amounted to more than pickpocketing or selling up some valuable-looking piece of trash to the nearest pawn shop, but it wouldn't have worked alone. I'm not sure we were happy. I'm not sure we were much of anything anymore. But we slept all the easier, and that was something. 

Things continued like this for a while until, eventually, our recklessness caught up with us. I knew we couldn't have stayed safe forever. Eventually, a batch was going to be tainted, or a track mark would get infected, or maybe one of our needles would be infected with something deadly. But even I couldn't have hoped to imagine what eventually befell us.

At first, I thought it was a simple fever. Something definitely worth worrying over, but nothing we could have hoped to fix. I hoped it would go away on its own, but instead, it just got worse. Every day, my head grew warmer and warmer until my brain felt like it was being cooked alive. I was too hot for a blanket and yet too cold to not have one. I was constantly shivering throughout the day as sweat poured down over me. 

Worst of all was the thirst. My throat acted at all hours of the day, and no matter how much rainwater I drank, it was never satisfied. There were times I could even swear my throat was on fire and burning its way out of me. It got so bad I eventually took to sucking the sweat off my skin just to find a shred of relief. 

Caleb was mortified when he found out. He forced me to stay in whatever old mattress or pile of cardboard we called a bed and did his best to help me. If it wasn't for him, I would've died of thirst a long time ago. Day in and day out, he kept a shoveled bottle full of water to me that he fished out of public bathrooms. He barely had time to shoot up with all the help he gave me. Not the best way to curve an addiction, believe me, but it definitely helped Caleb get better. I, on the other hand, only got worse.

The fever and the thirst were just the start. My eyes were the first in the next wave to start acting up. They grew incredibly sensitive before long until I couldn't open them for even a split second. Every ray of light burned to witness, even through my eyelids, and I had to wear a blindfold just to keep the pain down. My skin had a similar problem. The clothes I wore irritated it to no end. It was like I could feel every fiber of fabric, and all that information was drowning me. Sunlight was by far the greatest culprit. Even the tiniest ray made me feel like I was burning alive, and soon I could barely stand to be outside. If it wasn't for Caleb, I'm not sure what I would have done.

He hid me in a dumpster at first, hoping to keep me out of the light. Then, he managed to find a room in some crackhouse for me to take refuge in. By day he brought me buckets upon buckets of water to sacrifice to my thirst, and by night, he fended off whichever crackhead would come to try and take our room. I'm not sure when he had time to sleep between all that, but he was somehow always ready to do what needed to be done. All the while, I could barely open my eyes.

The only thing worse than fighting off that disease was knowing I wasn't the reason I survived it. Caleb worked himself to death and back, just keeping me alive while all I could do was lay there, moaning. I tried to make him go and outright pleaded with him, but he wasn't hearing it. Every time I so much as mentioned the prospect, he'd reply, "Oh yeah. Well fucking make me." I hated when he said that because I knew I couldn't. I just had to hope I'd get better because if Caleb ever did decide to leave, I would surely die, unable to even get up from bed.

One night, however, things changed. I was sucking on my arm again and licking up what little sweat I could when Caleb came in with a small water bottle full of some new liquid.

"What is it?" I asked and kneeled down next to me.

"Nothing. I just-" He paused. "Thought it might help with all this."

I peeked out from behind my blindfold and saw something dark and viscous sloshing around inside said bag. "Are you sure that's water?"

"Yes!" Caleb blurted out. "I mean, along with some other stuff. I put in some…some old energy drinks I found in the trash and-and some soup broth I bartered off some waiter. Chicken soup! It's supposed to make you feel better, right?"

I didn't think about it for long. He could have told me it was old milk, and I still would have drunk it. I snatched the bottle out of his hand and down the whole thing in a few quick gulps. Months of disappointment had primed me for such, but the moment that liquid touched my tongue was like the first second of a whole new life. Warmth flooded through my veins, and scrubbed away the gunk clouding my mind. The pain in my throat finally subsided, and my whole body felt flush with life. 

"Wow," I said as I pulled the empty bottle away from my mouth. "What was that stuff?"

I looked to Caleb only to find him gazing back with a look of concern and alarm. If I hadn't known any better, I'd have thought he was about to run. 

"Caleb, are you alright?"

He stared at me for a minute longer before snapping back to reality and stammering out, "What? Yes! Of course. I mean, are you alright? Feeling wise?"

"Yeah. I feel great, actually." I put the bottle aside and slowly started to push myself back onto my feet. Just like I had hoped, there wasn't any pain or nausea as I did so. I was actually better! But before I could stand up, Caleb lunged and grabbed me by my shoulders.

"Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow. Hold up there, Dusty. Maybe you shouldn't be getting up so soon, right?"

"But I feel better."

"I know annnnnnnnnd-" He trailed for a second before spitting out, "But, I mean, just because you're feeling better now doesn't mean you still aren't sick. I knew a guy who had the flu once and then got better only to start moving around for a day and then fall back over."

"What?"

"Look, just stay here, okay?" He said as he slowly lowered me back down to the mattress. "If you're still feeling better after a few days, then sure, you can leave. But let's play it safe until then, okay? Don't want you getting worse after all."

Something was wrong. That much was obvious. But I couldn't say he was wrong. It wasn't like my sickness was going to vanish in an instant. "I guess," I said as I let him guide me down. He seemed relieved at that and took the bottle I'd set aside before slowly backing up to the door. 

"God! Great! Super!" Caleb exclaimed. "You just stay there and rest up, and I'll see if I can find any more of this." He shook the empty bag. "So rest up, sleep tight, good night, and I'll just, uhhhh..yeah!" Just like that, he was gone. 

True to his word, he came back the next night with another bottle full of the stuff. I slurped it down like before and once more felt this wave of energy rush through me. I drank every last drop before I thought to see what the substance was for myself and when I turned to Caleb, he again dodged my questions. After that, I didn't ask again. I was just happy to be rid of whatever I had caught. For the next few days, Caleb kept bringing me back more and more bags of his miracle brew, and with each, I got stronger and stronger. What little light leaked into the room no longer burned to look at, and the fever melting my brain subsided. It didn't only make me recover, however. 

It's hard to describe how exactly I felt after a few days of drinking that stuff. I didn't just feel better; I felt more. More alive, more attentive, more than anything I'd ever been before. I could do more than stand back up; I swore I could have jumped over the moon. I went from being so weak I could barely crawl to pacing around the room just to let off some energy. It was more than that too. That weight pressing down on my head was all but gone. My thoughts came through clearer than I believed than ever could. I wasn't back to being me. I was a better me.

But still, I was stuck in that room. As obvious as it was that I was getting better, Caleb still refused to let me go. "Maybe just wait a little longer. Don't want to overdo it." He'd always say while sounding not afraid but concerned. Like I'd shatter if I so much as took a step outside. I tried to be patient at first. I thought that he only wanted to take care of me, but he'd been taking care of me for too long now. He had to know I didn't need him doing this anymore. Wasn't it obvious?