The lecture ended with the professor reminding us of our upcoming exam, then everyone began to pack up their laptops and file out. Putting my laptop in my bag, I got up and climbed the stairs of the lecture hall. Fridays were relatively easy because it was the only day I had only one class, which was a humanities Gen Ed to fulfill a requirement. Granted, it was my least favorite class, but it was relatively easy. I headed to the dining hall to meet my girlfriend, Stephanie. She was a fellow computer science major, and, god, she was brilliant. She rivaled me. If I was Peter Parker, she was MJ. The weather had a slight chill to it, but not bad enough that I had to wear more than my graphic tee and flannel. My apparel had barely developed from high school, but nobody care any longer. College was like that. Nobody care about what you wore or how you looked, and they only cared about what was going on inside your head. Smarts and charisma weighed out.

Steph was wearing one of my hoodies when I met her in the dining hall—it was baggy and the arms were far too long. Kissing her on the cheek, I thanked my lucky stars for what I had. She had already gotten me a plate, so I immediately took to complaining about humanities class and rambling about the research I was doing with one of my professors. Similarly, she talked about her work with one of the physics professors and how that was coming along. I liked that you could research outside of your major at Stanford, but I stuck to choosing computer science when looking for research opportunities.

Happy was an understatement. I was at my dream school, where I met a beautiful girl, and was on track was getting a ton of experience. People thought I was cool. Me. Life was incredible. He always has a funny way of disrupting that.

***

Despite being a bit taller and bigger than I had been in high school, I remained a lightweight. A few friends had drank before we hit the bars, but I knew better than to drink beforehand. One of them, Jacky, always made fun of me but it was all in good fun. I hadn't been genuinely made fun of since high school, which was over two years prior. Many students lived in the same apartment complex, so my friends and we only had to walk down a flight of stairs to pick up Steph and her friends. When she opened the door, a group of girls dressed in tight outfits greeted us. I didn't even look at them, just her. She was wearing a tight black dress that fit her body perfectly, and I was always in awe of her when she dressed up—even after the hundredth time. With a quick peck, we all headed out of the complex and towards the downtown area.

The small bar was packed with an ungodly amount of college students, specifically drunk ones. There was no room to sit at the bar, but I pushed through the crowd and got a beer for Steph and I. When I returned, half of the group had already taken to the pool table and the other half was arguing over who would play darts. Rather than participating, I drank at a table with Steph and we spoke about nothing important, probably just whatever was going on in the room. I loved talking about nothing with her. Whatever I had been saying, it made her smile. I remember her smiling and giggling at what ever I was saying through a crooked smile.

After I had finished my beer, I excused myself and headed towards the restroom in the back. When I entered, I didn't think anyone was in there and I traversed the stalls, peeking in to see which one was the least dirty. Pushing the door of the last stall, I saw it. A young man had collapsed on the floor, beside a needle and a small ziploc bag. Without thinking, I dove to the floor and tried shaking the man awake, then I flipped him over and that's when I saw it. The distinct scar. I don't remember screaming, but apparently it was so loud blood-curdling that numerous people immediately rushed in. I don't know who called 911, nor do I know what the loud voices that surrounded me were saying. My head was swirling and everything was quiet, yet so loud.

All I could do was examine him—take it all in. The arm that laid limp on the tile had a distinct puncture hole, which still had drug liquid and blood around the wound. Dirty blond hair covered his face, a bit long and scraggly like it hadn't been take care of recently. His eyes were closed, sunken in and the dark circles looked permanent. I just kept shouting his name, repeating it as if it would make a difference. It didn't. Eli was dead on the bathroom floor.

The rest was even quicker. Jacky had pried me away, allowing the paramedics to examine him and one immediately began compressions. They pulled him into a stretcher, the one man continuing compressions as they rolled him out. Like a zombie or some undead creature, I followed them out and watched as they loaded him into an ambulance. Somehow I managed to ask one of the paramedics, "Where are you taking him?" And they told me the name a the nearby hospital. The last paramedic filed in and the door opened for a moment, where I saw the man charging paddles. "Shit." Was all I could manage.

"Demetri? Who is that?" Steph was shaking my arm, but I could barely feel it. I didn't answer. I don't know how I would have. Who was Eli? An old friend, I suppose.

"We have to go. I have to go see Eli. I have to go see Eli." In my panic, I just repeated that I had to see him, unsteadily turning to look at my friends. I was pretty much sober, but the others were either tipsy or drunk.

"O-Okay, Dem. Let's take an Uber to the hospital." Her voice was shaky, and I knew I was scaring her. She was rubbing my back as she pulled out her phone.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, Eli was awake and sedated. After they resuscitated him and the narcan took effect, he started getting aggressive and talking nonsense, the receptionist had told us. She warned us that the sedation made him drowsy and could make him a bit delusional.

As I entered the room, I saw the figure that was curled up on the bed with an IV drip attached to his wrist. When his blue eyes met mine, he immediately recoiled—pushing himself into sitting position and farthest away from me. "Lady, whatever you gave me is making me see things. Get it out." He cried and went to reach for his IV, but she stopped him and threatened to heighten his sedation if he kept fighting back.

"You aren't seeing things, Eli."

"Eli." He repeated his name like it didn't belong to him. His voice was raspier than it had been in high school. "I haven't heard that name in years." The young man let himself fall back into a resting position, but was looking at me curiously.

I looked towards the nurse, she took it as her cue to leave and scurried out. He clutched the pan in his lap harder when I approached, so I stopped a bit away. Scared wasn't how I imagined Eli when I thought of him, then again I barely thought of him in my time after high school. Steph and the others were in the waiting room, just a few room away from my two worlds colliding. "Dem..." I thought he was going to finish his sentence, but instead he leaned into the pan and began to vomit, violently. So violent, in fact, that I called for a nurse. They had put him in a hospital gown that had an open back, so I could see the bones of shoulders and how they jutted. His muscle mass was almost entirely gone, with just faint biceps to remind of what there once was. His collarbones...god, they were so awfully apparent.

The nurse rushed in, then saw the problem. "You're going to be throwing up—"

"Yeah, yeah. I know the symptoms of withdrawal." Eli panted once he had finished puking his guts into the bed pan. She quickly took the soiled one and handed him a fresh one. There was a certain annoyed feeling I got from her, as if she was annoyed by another heroine addict stumbling into the hospital. But he wasn't "just another heroine addict". He was Eli. My childhood best friend. My binary brother. The guy that peed himself when we watched The Shining. The guy who would lay beside me as we watched Doctor Who, fighting over which Doctor was superior. The resentment and anger I had felt in high school had dissipated in that moment, leaving behind just sadness. I wondered if everyone treated him like they were annoyed with him nowadays.

The nurse left in a hurry. "Were you crying?" Eli watched me, his eyes going big like how I remembered they always did. He looked like a deer at times.

"Yes, of course I was."

"Why?"

"You're Eli Moskowitz."

"I haven't been Eli Moskowitz since I was fifteen." He said with a straight and final tone. Silence took over, until he spotted my red hoodie. "Stanford. I had heard that you went there."

"Yeah, I'm a junior now. Studying comp sci, as I'm sure you would have guessed.

"Jeez." He went silent again. "My head hurts."

"Maybe I can get them to give you something for the pain or—"

"No, I just have to ride this out. I know how it is." He sounded annoyed, I had aggravated him. Now I was the deer in headlights. The room was silent, again, and he faced away from me when he laid down.

By the third phone call, I was sure she had forgotten my number, but the fourth was answered. "Hello?" A familiar, warm voice asked.

In awe of the familiarity, I stuttered. "M-Mrs. Moskowitz?"

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"It's Demetri. Demetri Alexopoulos." The line went silent and I thought she had hung up. "Hello?"

"If you're calling asking for Eli, he doesn't live with us anymore."

"I'm not. Well, I am. He's in the hospital. He overdosed in Palo Alto."

"Same as he did in Vegas, and in Oakland, and in Sacramento." She sighed. "How did you get roped into this."

"I found him."

"Demetri, don't involve yourself with him. He isn't the same boy I raised. I don't know who he is, but he's not my son. Listen to me. Don't get involved."

"But—" By the time I spoke she had already hung up and the shrill beep was in my ear.

Stephanie had returned with a cup of coffee, and was smart enough to not ask how the call went. She sat beside me, laying her head on my shoulder. The sounds of complaining, people in pain, and telephones ringing filled the waiting room. It was all unbearable.