him.”
“Nothing to lose,” she snarled. And squeezed until she felt his larynx begin to collapse. “I want the new stuff. I came all the way back for it. And if I can’t get it, I’ll take something else. Just.” She squeezed. “For.” Tighter. “Fun.” Still.
And saw terror in his eyes.
Everyone stepped away, including Marc, while the dealer made a gurgling noise.
“I beg your pardon. What did you say?” she asked. And went through his pockets with her free hand as his eyes began rolling to the back of his head.
She found packets of pills. Packets of powder.
None of it was what she was looking for. She put the packets in her pocket.
Then released him.
He coughed and sputtered, then lunged at her. Amelia stepped aside, pushing him face-first into the wall and pinning him there.
“I’m not a little girl, shithead. I’m a fucking bitch,” she hissed into his filthy ear. “But you know what else I am, you pathetic piece of merde?”
She twisted his head so that he could see her.
“I’m the one-eyed man. Tell that to your supplier. Tell him to watch out.”
She gave him one last shove, turned around, and left. Marc scurrying behind her.
“What was that supposed to mean?” he asked. “What did you just do? They’ll kill you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t actually care.” She handed him most of the packets. “One for you. Sell the rest.”
“What about you?” He slipped through the snowy street, trying to catch up with her. His arms wrapped around his chest, his coat too thin to keep him warm on this bitter night.
“I have better things to find,” she said.
* * *
The next morning she woke up in Marc’s room, in Marc’s bed. With Marc staring at her.
“Jesus, girl, what did you get up to last night? When I left you, you were looking for the new shit. Did you find it?”
She shook her head. “How’d I get here?”
“I carried you. Found you in an alley. I thought for sure you were dead. But you were just passed out. What did you take?”
She rubbed her hand over her face, feeling the grit of dried sleep, or tears, down her cheeks.
“I don’t know.”
Amelia had been stoned before. Lots of times. But never like this. Her head felt like it was splitting open, and she struggled for breath.
She tried to remember what had happened the night before. But all she saw were flashes that twisted and tilted in her memory. Turning her stomach until she thought she’d puke.
There was one that kept repeating.
A little girl. She was six or seven years old. Bright red Canadiens tuque on her head. She was wearing moose mittens and holding out a baggie of dope.
The child was swaying on her feet. Staring ahead of her.
But Amelia knew it wasn’t so much a memory as a hallucination. Brought on by the shitface dealer calling her a little girl.
“You made quite an impression,” Marc said, getting into bed beside her and pulling up the covers. “Everyone wants to know who you are.”
“What did you tell them?”
Putting his arm around her, Marc hugged her to his bony chest. Speaking into her dirty hair, his voice muffled, he said, “I told them, Sweet Pea, that you’re the one-eyed man.”
CHAPTER 17
Armand strained to reach the hand. And the body attached to it.
“What is it?” shouted Myrna.
Pinned behind him, she couldn’t see what he was doing, or why. But she could feel his almost frantic movements.
She tried to open her eyes, but the filth in the air kept forcing them closed. Billy, facing her, also had his eyes screwed shut. And his hands tightly clasped hers.
But Armand kept his eyes open, focused on the hand. Hoping, hoping to see movement as he stretched his arm out toward it.
He leaned as far forward as he could. But couldn’t. Quite. Reach.
“What?” asked Benedict. “What’s happening?”
“There’s someone buried with us. I see a hand.”
Benedict started to cough, and Armand eased up. Realizing he was pressing himself too hard against Benedict. Hurting the living to get to someone who was almost certainly dead.
They heard shouting and digging above them.
Still Armand reached out. In an unconscious imitation of The Creation of Adam. Two fingers, almost touching. But where Michelangelo had depicted the beginning of life, Armand knew this was the end. For someone.
* * *
“Who is it?” Armand asked.
Jean-Guy closed the door behind him and sat on the bench of the ambulance.
Armand was the last, by his choice, to be looked at by the medics. Benedict had been