He sat in the corner with that look on his face, that look that said, I am about to speak.
"Let's get up and go."
I felt so sick, my joints ached, my mouth felt like it had been dry since the moment I was born. I got up anyway. There was no point resisting.
"We've gotta hustle." He said preemptively thwarting the gleam of protest he already suspected.
"But I'm so tired, baby." I said, hoping in vain that he would go for me.
We got off the cold floor without another word. I threw up on the way down the stairs. If it went on like this we both would die. I wanted to die. He made me want to die. We stole some copper pipes and made it to the recycling center as it closed. The guy gave us shit and shorted us on the money. We scored again and I think baby took more than me. That was last Friday.