The sick girl pushed through the door into the entryway of the dilapidated old house. Her hip thumped against a small worn side table, and she tasted bile as her stomach flip-flopped violently. She wanted a glass of water. Loud music pounded in her ears, causing her head to ache, as she stumbled forward in search of the kitchen. Everywhere were pieces of worn furniture where young men and women with shaved heads and tattoos congregated together in groups of two or three. Suddenly she tripped on the edge of a tiger-skin rug and fell onto her hands and knees. Her head spun. Someone passing by pretended not to see her and trod on her hand. She cried out in pain and swore at him before pulling herself back to her feet. Before she could continue forward, a bulky man wearing a black leather jacket with an insignia depicting a hoary crow stepped in front of her. “Why are you here? You’re supposed to be out with Paul,” he said. “There’s still time,” replied the girl, before attempting to go around him, but he placed himself in front of her again, seemingly on the verge of exploding with anger. “Do you think that you’re special just because you did time?” he demanded furiously. “No,” she replied, and this time she was able to dart around him and enter the kitchen. By this point her stomach was roiling like she was aboard a ship in stormy weather, and she leaned forward to vomit noisily into the sink. Her eyes and nose stung furiously. The owner of the house came into the kitchen and began to shout at her, but she ignored him and propped herself up against an old appliance as she took a bottle of water from the refrigerator and drank. The water did not make her feel any better. Then she looked out the window, and was struck dumb as she wondered what kind of trick fate was playing on her. There, on the sidewalk outside, was her sister.