“Michael.” Lee struggles upright, everything is spinning, and his voice is making all the light waves in the room vibrate like wind chimes. They put their arms around him and their head on his shoulder, suddenly close, but in a strange, boneless way like they sometimes get when they've had too much to drink. “I got sick,” they say in Hebrew. They can't concentrate enough to remember how to speak English right now, though they can understand what he's saying. It's just that the words are too far away from their mouth.
“I want to go home. I don't like it here. They gave me something. I think it was an amphetamine. I'm really awake. I can't think. Everything's too fast. Your hair is really soft.” They can't stop petting it; they've never felt like this before and it's not unpleasant but they don't like it. They don't like not having any choice in the matter. Their elbow is wrapped in a bit of gauze with a cotton ball over the injection site, like someone drew blood. Or injected something.