The ATM Machine buzz's with electronic doings when you pull up and feel the earth sway under you feet, the sky to slide off its hinges, the person in front of you to jerk unnaturally to the side; back and forth frantic movements that increases the already paranoid feeling in the back of your head, the bowels of your gut. Fast and quick the machine deposits another twenty. You stand in front of the gray plastic, keys in one hand, money and card in the other and think for a moment: Twenty dollars? That will buy me one hit. But I don't want just one. I'll want another, so… that makes forty dollars.

You leave with over two hundred dollars in your hand, the crisp green sliding back and forth along the steering wheel as you peel out. Eyes nervous again, they stab at the rearview mirror, taunting it to show you the black and blue cop car. But there is none. You knew that, didn't you? Fingering your cell phone, you dial up B., your friend and dealer who always seem to have exactly what you need.

Yes.

It's the only word he speaks, and it means so much to you that you start to speed. Cutting across the black-road with a vicious intent in your greedy eye.