Saturday

"I don't need anyone."

Mark flipped over to the left to check his alarm clock for the hundredth time that night. Still too early.

"Please don't do this."

He tossed back over to his right, pulling the covers up to block out the sound of Amber's voice in his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to drown out details of yesterday, but he knew there was only one thing that helped him do that, the same thing calling from his bag across the room.

Back on his left, he checked the clock again:

5:15am.

"Just leave, Amber."

The memory of the car door slamming in her face jolted him out of bed and onto his feet. Moving deftly around the bedroom, he tugged on the first pair of shoes he could find, shouldered his bag, then opened the door to head downstairs.

"It isn't seven."

Mark wasn't surprised by the sound of Ronnie's voice; anything outside their normal routine raised red flags for his brother. It was too dark to make out Ronnie's face, but his silhouette loomed in the twin bed next to Mark's, still as a statue.

"Can't sleep. Just gonna take a drive. I'll be back soon."

Mark waited the allotted five seconds to see if Ronnie would respond; if he had asked a question, there wouldn't be a wait at all.

It took Ronnie three seconds. "Promise?"

"Promise. Look," Mark pointed out his phone on the dresser, "Won't even take my cell so you have a guarantee. You'll barely notice I'm gone."

The five seconds passed and Ronnie said nothing, so Mark gave him a final nod and closed their door behind him. Briefly glancing at the twins' room at the end of the hall, he bounded down the stairs and past the den, ignoring the agonized moaning from the couch.

I don't need anyone. And now, he had no one. Carter was still out of his life, and now he'd sent Amber right along with him. All he had left were three kids who needed too much and the agonized moaning from the couch.

Sinking into the station wagon, Mark turned the ignition and pulled out of the driveway.

Please don't do this. But he had to. The needs of his siblings outweighed everything else, and Mark couldn't afford to let fear hold him back. He didn't have that choice anymore.

Sidling up to the intersection for the main road, he looked to the left, then looked to the right. Left, towards Amber and Carter's street; right, towards the interstate and endless road. He looked both ways a second time like his mother had taught him a thousand years ago — to protect him from getting hurt.

Just leave.

Mark flipped on his blinker and turned.

The sun was fully up by the time he pulled off the highway.

Double checking the Mapquest he printed last night, Mark turned right into a dilapidated apartment complex and pulled into a spot far from the door. Climbing out of the car, his steps faltered only once at the sight of bars on the first floor windows. He pushed past it and found his way through the lobby and up to the fourth floor.

It took him time to find the right unit, but he felt no relief once he stopped at D4. He didn't want to knock — holy shit, he didn't want to — but his fist hit the door before he could change his mind. It was quiet for a long time, so long Mark worried he had read Darren's text wrong, but it finally swung open on a half dressed man, every inch of his chest covered in tattoos.

His brow ring dipped when he frowned down at Mark. "What the fuck do you want?"

"Um," Mark stalled, grasping for a response. Darren hadn't told him what to say when he got here, just the address and the guy's name, Fitz.

"You're knocking on my door at the ass crack of dawn and don't know why?" Fitz scoffed. "Man, get the hell out of here."

The door was halfway closed when Mark finally patched together a sentence. "I'm, um, I'm here for th-the pick up. The Wexler pick up."

Instantly, Fitz's aggravated expression melted into one of amusement. "Well shit, why didn't you just say that? Get in here." He wrenched the door open and motioned for Mark to follow him deeper into the apartment.

Mark had to pick his way over piles of trash and clothes just to get inside. The mess was accompanied by random bodies sprawled out on every surface, whether it be the fraying couch that took up most of the room, or cuddled up with empty bottles on the stained carpet.

"Don't think you guys have ever come this early," Fitz explained, walking around the living room without regard for his passed out guests. "Shit ain't even packaged yet, so you gotta give me a second. Feel free to sit where you can."

Which meant nowhere, unless Mark wanted to move someone — which he did not. He settled with standing stiffly against the wall, watching Fitz pull out a large duffle bag and throw it down on the coffee table. Beer bottles and ashtrays went tumbling to the floor.

"Hey, watch where you're throwing shit," a woman griped from under the table. Her head of bright blue hair popped up from the floor, then shot Mark a suspicious look. "Who's the kid?"

"Wexler's pick up," Fitz mumbled, his focus on the baggies in front of him. "Make yourself useful Kitty and get all these people out of here, will ya? And roll a fuckin' joint, my head is killing me."

"Sorry, uh, about the time," Mark stammered out as the woman — Kitty — swept around the room, kicking people awake. He should've thought more about the vast difference between eight in the morning and their original meeting time of three in the afternoon.

"Eh, haven't seen morning in years. Kinda nostalgic," Fitz squinted up at Mark and held out one of the bags, "It's also fuckin' bright."

Up close, it didn't look much different than the half dime of coke Mark still had in his backpack, but he unzipped it and held it out to Fitz instead of taking the dope himself.

He smirked. "First time, huh? Hey everybody, we got a first timer over here." Half-assed whoops raised up from the group, but Fitz got to his feet and clapped Mark on the shoulder. "Gah, I remember my first drop. Well, sorta. Memory ain't what it used to be."

"Whose is?" a burly man in the corner chimed in. "Mine's been gone since '93."

Mark stared apprehensively as more people regained consciousness, stumbling around the cramped apartment and pulling their shit together. Some gave him skeptical looks as they passed, but all he wanted was for Fitz to hurry up so he could drop the supply off early. The sooner his part of the deal was over, the better.

Unfortunately, Fitz seemed to be in no rush. "Hey, you know what? We gotta initiate you right. Not everyday someone does their first drug deal."

Mark paled. "Um, no, actually I—"

"Does that mean we ain't gotta leave?" a younger woman crooned from her perch on the windowsill.

"It means, the party continues," Fitz said with a greasy smile, pulling Mark over to the couch. "What's your poison, kid? You've got the pick of the litter."

Things were quickly going downhill, but Mark struggled to find the words to resist. All he choked out was, "I don't have any money," hoping that would be enough to deter them.

"Shit's on the house, baby," Kitty purred, squeezing in beside him and offering a joint. "You're one of Wexler's people."

"So, of course we've got bud. Thank you my sweet," Fitz reached past Mark and plucked the blunt from her fingers, "Indica, sativa, even a few hybrids if that's more your thing."

"It isn't," Mark said shortly, but he couldn't muster the courage to peel himself off the couch and get the hell out of there.

Fitz's grin only widened as he studied Mark closer. "No, it wouldn't be. I can see it in your eyes." He opened a side pocket in the bag and let the contents spill out. "Nothing like a snowfall in August."

A hundred dime bags slipped out of the duffle, their white contents striking against the dark wood table. Mark's mouth went dry as he stared at the coke, and suddenly, he was itchy all over — so, so itchy.

"Aww, he's like a little kid in a candy store." He barely felt Kitty's fingers pinching his cheek. "Can we keep him?"

"He's welcome to stay as long as he likes," Fitz answered, throwing an arm around Mark's shoulders. "And to as much blow as he likes, too. We take care of our own."

Get up, Mark screamed in his head. Move, go, now! But a much louder voice was asking a much more persuasive question:

What more do you have to lose?

Picking up one of the bags, Mark relaxed against the sofa. "I guess a line or two won't hurt."

The light outside was a warm glow when Mark finally came to.

His head pounded as he lifted it off the coffee table, a few baggies still sticking to his cheek. Searching his surroundings, he found the apartment emptier than before, with only Fitz and Kitty talking softly in the kitchen.

"Ah, there he is," Fitz exclaimed once Mark found his way to the counter, bending over and resting his forehead against the granite top. "Wondered when you'd finally get up."

"What happened?" Mark could barely string a sentence together, much less the last few hours.

"You crashed big time. Happens to the best of us, but how sweet was that ride?" Fitz reminisced, setting down a glass of water next to him.

"How long was I out?" Mark's throat sighed in relief as he chugged down the water. He hoped it would be enough to last him the long ride home.

"Baby, you slept the whole day away," Kitty laughed, turning on the stove. "I was just about to start dinner if you want food for the road."

Water shot up Mark's nose as he choked, eyes flying over to the oven. The numbers on the display nearly made him drop the glass.

5:15pm.

A scrambled mess, Mark tore back into the living room and snatched up his bag, hauling the heavy supply onto his back. Searching around feverishly, he finally found his car keys wedged under one of the couch cushions, then bolted back towards the entrance.

"Come back anytime, kid!" Fitz called before the apartment door closed, but Mark was already flying down the stairs and hauling ass to the lone station wagon still parked in the lot.

Fingers shaking, Mark shoved his bag in the backseat and started up the car. He almost vomited when his gas light turned on, but there was no time to stop for a fill up. Darren had told him to arrive two hours early; at this rate, he'd barely make it to the actual drop.

"Don't let me down, you piece of shit," Mark warned his car before taking off towards home.

He almost hit one of the diner's dumpsters as he peeled into the back lot, empty except for Darren's black Beamer. Sighing with relief, Mark slumped against the steering wheel, breathing for the first time in hours.

They aren't here yet, he sang in his head. Darren yelling at him he could deal with; all he cared about was being long gone when everything went down. Still, he couldn't seem to relax. A restlessness nagged at him, edging his attention towards the backseat and the dime bag tucked in his backpack.

"A quick bump," he said out loud, hoping it would help him keep his word. "Just one for my nerves, that's it."

It was shooting up his nose when the car door was yanked open.

"Mark, what the fuck man? What part of 'two hours before' wasn't clear?"

He flinched at Darren's voice, sending the dime bag fluttering to the floor. "Look, I'm sorry, ok? I fell asleep at—"

"What the hell are you doing?!" Darren shouted, snatching the bag off the floor. "I said come clean!"

"What?" Mark knew he was wrong, but his heart rate kicked up anyway. "No, you said I'm just dropping it off, that's it."

"And in the text I sent this afternoon, I said you were doing the deal with me. Where the fuck is your phone?"

At home, on his dresser, right where it shouldn't be. Mark shook his head. "I can't, Darren."

"We don't have a choice, Anderson, get outta the car!" He gripped Mark's arm and yanked.

Mark held onto the wheel for dear life. "No, Darren, the coke!"

"How much did you take?"

"A bump, but—"

"That isn't enough, and he won't let me do the drop alone. I need you!"

Mark fought harder. "You don't understand—"

"No, Mark, you don't understand!" With a final pull, Darren ripped Mark out of the seat and onto the asphalt. "I cannott fuck this up. He will kill me if this goes wrong, so you gotta do this for me, ok? There is no other option."

"I'll talk to Fitz. He'll understand, he knows—"

"I'm not talking about Fitz!" Darren screamed, snatching Mark by the collar of his shirt. He had never seen Darren so scared in his life — until a large SUV pulled into the lot. Then, he looked downright petrified.

"Call your dad," Mark insisted, trying to get around Darren. "He'll fix it, no one will touch you once they know who you are!"

The headlights swept across Darren's face, illuminating the fear in his eyes. "No one except my dad. Who'd you think set me up with a fuckin' supplier?"

Mark's heart plummeted into his stomach, understanding hitting him like a ton of bricks. He looked past Darren at the SUV idling across the lot, then back up to his face.

"They're his friends, Mark. He'll kill me." Darren held out a shaky hand to help him up. "Please, just one little prick. Then it's over."

Mark could leave. He did his part of the deal, and Darren wasn't one of the three who needed him most. He didn't owe him a thing.

But from this angle, Darren looked a little too much like Ronnie... and he knew walking away wasn't an option.

So as much as he wanted to run, he didn't. As much as wished he could go back and turn left, he couldn't.

All that was left was to take Darren's hand.