The apartment smelled of stale coffee. Zane stood by the window where the blinds only partially open, watching the fog choke Iron Hollow's streets.
A pickup rumbled past, its headlights barely piercing the gray dawn, while the neon of the Rusty Nail buzzed faintly two blocks away.
Sleep had eluded him, replaced by the incessant hum of a town that never rested. At 23, Zane felt the weight of seven years spent alone, with only a cigarette as his steady companion.
He lit it with his Zippo, the flame's brief flare catching the bruise under his eye, it's a souvenir from a bar fight last week, some drunk mouthing off about "Commie guns" flooding the county.
The table held a cold mug, an eviction notice three days past due and fifty bucks; it's his last take from testing Marco Delgado's meth. Not enough to fend off Russo, the landlord.
Russo had banged on the door yesterday and threatened to throw Zane out.
Fifty bucks wouldn't buy much in a town where cash flowed dirty and banks crumbled, and the "War on Drugs" was a radio slogan.
Zane smoked and looked at the notice. He thought about Marco's offer from last week. Marco wanted him to cook meth, not just test it. More money would come with more risk. Zane had avoided that step since his mom, Cheryl, died from pills seven years ago.
His gift—a touch that peeled back a substance's lies—kept him afloat and not drowning. He'd never told Marco it wasn't a hunch; he just let the guy think he was lucky.
The phone rattled—a scratched-up rotary relic from when the butcher shop downstairs still carved meat, now dangling by a frayed cord.
Zane let it ring three times, the shrill cutting through the quiet before picking up. He cradled it against his shoulder while tapping ash into the sink.
"Who's this?" His voice scraped, rough from smoke and sleeplessness.
"Me, asshole. Marco. Haul your ass to the shop." The line hissed; Marco's tone was sharp, not relaxed like usual.
Zane clicked the Zippo shut. "What's wrong?"
"Got a mess. Need your hands on it." A pause, then a mutter, half-lost in static. "Move it."
Click. Zane hung up slow, the weight settling heavier. Marco's chop shop off Route 9 didn't hum at dawn unless the world was tilting. He grabbed his denim jacket that has a torn at the elbow, and stepped into the hall, locking the door.
The stairwell stank of piss and burnt grease.
The walk was fifteen minutes, fog thick enough to swallow the town's bones—shuttered factories, their smokestacks dark since Reagan gutted the steel jobs. A stray dog nosed trash, his ribs stark under patchy fur.
Zane's boots crunched frost on cracked pavement, the air sharp with coal dust and something fainter—panic maybe, drifting from whispers of border coke and Asian smack creeping north.
The shop crouched behind a gas station, roll-up door ajar. Inside, it reeked of oil and a chemical bite—meth's shadow. A gutted Pontiac sat in the corner.
Marco paced by a workbench, toothpick twitching, a plastic bag of yellowish crystals glinting under a bare bulb.
"Early for you," Zane said with hands in his pockets.
Marco didn't look up, just flicked the bag with a finger. "Touch it. Tell me."
Zane moved closer. His stomach tightened a little. He wasn't sure why yet. He touched the bag and felt something bad. Then he opened it and picked up a crystal. His trick told him the truth. "It's got levamisole in it," he said. He wiped his hand on his jeans. "Bad stuff. It could kill someone."
Marco snapped the toothpick, spitting it onto the concrete. "Third damn time this month. Someone's fucking with me."
Zane leaned against the Pontiac, arms crossed. "Who'd you piss off?"
"Plenty," Marco grunted, running a hand through his curls. "Don't matter yet. What matters is the Kings, they are rolling in with better gear and more muscle. Heard they're cozying up to some Chicago crew now. We're bleeding, Zane."
Zane pulled out his Zippo and flicked it on. The flame went out. "And?"
"So I need you cooking." Marco's eyes flicked up, gold tooth glinting. "You've got that trick—shit, you're a damn wizard with it. We could crank pure enough to choke 'em out. Big cut for you, my word on it."
Zane's jaw tightened, He thought of Cheryl and her pills. He made a promise back then. "That's a deep hole, Marco. Cops, feds, all that noise."
Marco smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Noise is already here, kid. Saw a van last night—antennas, not local plates. Kings'll gut us before the suits even knock. You're gold, Zane. Sit on it, and we're both done."
The drip from a leaky pipe punctuated the silence. Zane stared at the tainted meth, fifty bucks burning a hole in his pocket.
Marco's pitch wasn't a question—it was a shove. But he wasn't biting yet.
"Need to chew on it," he said, voice low.
Marco's smirk faded with his jaw twitching. "Chew fast. This ain't a waiting game."
Zane stepped out, fog swallowing him again. A distant siren wailed, then faded, another body maybe in a town that ate its own. He lit another cigarette, the ember a lone spark in the gray. The edge was closer now, and the world beyond Iron Hollow; its cartels and its shadows weren't waiting for him to choose.