I think about morphine—or heroin, really. I see the needle going in, the excitement of pulling back the plunger and watching the blood dart up into the syringe—pushing it slowly so it disappears into your arm as if by magic. I think about the tingling numbness creeping up the back of your neck and the euphoric calm that pulses through everything. In a way, I guess, I’m looking at Spencer with a certain amount of envy. Being sick is like a Get Out of Jail Free card. I
