Page 146 of Antihero

Evan was in trouble.

The gas-station convenience store had slim pickings.

Four aisles, two of them dedicated to junk food. The medical section had Band-Aids, gauze, pills of various over-the-counter stripes, and an inexplicably wide array of ankle braces. No syringe. No rubbing alcohol.

He grabbed a roll of white athletic tape and moved on, frantically searching the shelves while Anca checked the neighboring aisle.

His breath grew more ragged. Oxygen was getting low, his vision cramping.

Aside from beer, the only alcohol was nip bottles behind the counter. He pointed. “Vodka.” The word came out in a breathy wheeze. “Two … bottles.”

The clerk glanced up from his sudoku book, looking end-of-shift weary. “What kind?”

“Don’t care.”

The clerk leaned behind him, grabbed two of the tiny bottles, set them on the counter.

Pinnacle Whipped Cream Vodka.

“No.” Evan was injured, not dead. Plus whatever sugary crap they used to flavor it would not be sterilizing. “Not … those.”

“What then?”

He pointed. Tito’s would do.

“Anything else?”

Evan stepped back, scanning the rack for anything sharp enough. A pen tube, maybe. His inhalation hitched, and he had to fight to suck in a sip of air, a pain hiccup that furled his throat in its fist. Anca came around, shaking her head. “Nothing.”

He staggered a bit, and she braced him with her arm around his waist.

The clerk said, “Everything okay?”

“This is why I’m keeping him on the mini-bottles now,” Anca said.

Evan stepped around to the next aisle, searching frantically. Plastic lighters, condoms, tampons—and there. A pack of ball-pump needles.

The sight made him shudder. He’d used one for this once in Ankara behind a mechanic shop. It had not been pleasant.

He searched for anything else.

There was nothing else.

Beggars and choosers and all that.

Snatching the pack, he turned back to the counter, peeling a hundred-dollar bill from the wad in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The clerk pointed to the sign. WE DO NOT ACCEPT BILLS LARGER THAN $20.

Evan turned to Anca. “… change?”

“My purse is in the car. I can run and—”

“Do you have Apple Pay?” the clerk asked.

“I don’t…” A full wheeze now, the lung compression intensifying, blood vessels squishing, organs getting rocked in their beds. Fire slithered down his shoulder and armpit, flicking its tail all the way down to the tenth rib. His breathing had turned shallow, quick cramped jerks that brought little relief.

“You could sign up for our credit-card line,” the clerk said, sliding a pamphlet at Evan. “You get three percent back on gas purchases—”