"Pills," Lee says, voice muffled into the pillow below her. "They are all messed up on dope."
She sighs and turns around, resting her weight on her side, on her shoulder, her hair covering her face like a veil. Her face can still be made out behind it: tired eyes, the dimly frustrated countenance of someone who has finally given up on sleep that won't come.
"I think about the one who died a lot. The Russian."