We sat in her truck and took turns snorting the last of the eight ball she had bought off of her friend Kipsi or Kespi or something like that. She split the empty bag open and rubbed it against her gums. "Here," she said, handing it over to me. "It goes straight to the blood stream this way." 

I didn't move. "More," I said, "I can still feel something." 

The trick, she had told me earlier, was not to feel, to let everything go, because once it was gone, the exhaust fumes would do the rest. It was the best way to die, she had told me, numb and happy and empty.