Her sister's voice came through her cell phone. "I'm concerned about him," Janey said. "He looked terrible when he was here."

Two weeks ago, Tom had come to see Shannon, and he had looked awful, emotionally spent. Go to rehab, she'd said.

Sure, he'd replied with his sweet lopsided smile. She'd known he wouldn't.

Instead, last week Tom had visited Janey in Ordinary, Montana.

"Before he left," Janey said, "he wouldn't stop hugging me and telling me he loved me."

Shannon needed her to stay calm. "I'm sure he's fine."

"Promise you'll check up on him?"

"I'll head over to his apartment as soon as I hang up." Liar. You're already here. "I'll call if there's a problem."

Had those visits been Tom's way of saying goodbye? Had he planned to hurt himself? Shannon knocked again, rapping so hard her knuckles hurt, covering the phone with her other hand so Janey wouldn't hear.

Come on, Tom, answer.

"I'm so worried." Janey was the older, wiser sister, but Shannon had an urge to reassure her.

"I know."Me, too. Terrified. "You go to Disneyland. You worked your butt off for this trip, sis, and planned it for a year. It's your family's dream vacation. Go. I'll take care of things here."

"I don't know—"

"If you don't leave, I'll come to Ordinary and drag you to California myself."

Janey chuckled. "Okay, okay. I'll bring you back a souvenir."

Shannon tried to laugh, but it sounded phony. "Something really tacky?"

"You got it." Janey's answering laugh was genuine. Good. Shannon had managed to assuage her fears.

"Call me if you need me." not likely. Her sister really had earned this trip.

Shannon ended the call. She glared at Tom's apartment door. What about her own unease? Who would reassure her, when she was the one always taking care of others?

When she'd called Tom half an hour ago, he'd sounded out of it, but not drunk. Which drug was it these days? She knocked again, loudly enough to rouse everyone in the building.

He'd said he was home and didn't plan to go out—why wouldn't he answer?

Swearing, she hurried down to the first floor through a dirty stairwell that reeked of boiled cabbage. The smell nauseated her, reminded her of the poverty she'd clawed her way out of.

She knocked at the first apartment. The superintendent answered.

"There's something wrong with my brother in 308. You have to get me into his apartment."

"I can't—"

"Yes. Now." Her panic made an impression and he followed her upstairs with his set of master keys.

On the third floor, he unlocked Tom's door.

The stench hit her first—garbage and stale cigarette smoke. He'd started smoking again. Despite everything the family had done, was doing for Tom, it wasn't enough if he wouldn't take care of himself.

Why couldn't men handle the problems in their lives?

She stepped over a pizza box.

With the toe of her shoe, she nudged aside a grubby shirt. There was something on it—God, old vomit. Oh Tom.

Afraid of what she would find, she stepped into the living room. Laundry and dishes littered every surface. Dust coated the room.

When she walked across the stained carpet, something crunched under her foot. An unfinished pizza crust.

At first, she looked right past Tom.

He lay on the sofa so folded in on himself she'd mistaken him for a pile of laundry. She approached. His clothing was soaked with sweat, his once hale body ravaged, his stomach concave as though it were eating itself. He'd grown even thinner in just the past week. The deep clefts bracketing his mouth looked deeply ingrained, as though he'd carried them for a lot longer than his thirty years.

Shannon sank to her knees beside him and touched his arm. Too hot. He stank.

"Tom," she whispered. "What have you done to yourself?"

He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek. Too weak to complete the action, it fell back to his stomach. "Cathy," he whispered and smiled.

Cathy? He thought she was his dead wife? What was he on?

His pulse raced beneath her fingers. How could a man's heart beat so fast without hurting itself?

She turned to the super. "Call 9-1-1. It's an overdose."

Of what, though? He'd done so many different drugs, taken anything to deaden memories of the crash.

She wiped his forehead with her sleeve. "Tom, talk to me. What did you take?"

"Shannon?"

"Yes. What did you take? I need to know."

"Meth"

"How much, sweetie?"

He didn't respond. "Tom, how much!"

Still no answer. She was going to kill the bastard who sold her brother the meth.

"Where's Cathy?" he whispered.

Shannon grabbed the photo of Cathy and the two boys from the coffee table. His fingerprints coated the silver frame and glass. She wrapped his hand around it.

"Here, honey, they're right here." He thought they were still alive. That would last only until the drug cleared his system.

Tom, you're breaking my heart.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"Huh?" He was falling asleep.

"The meth," she yelled and shook his shoulder, her fear making her harsh. "Where did you get it?"

"Ordinary."

"Ordinary? You're kidding. Who in Ordinary would sell you meth?"

He whispered something and she leaned close. "Cooking. Main Street." His voice was thin.

He looked past her. "Where's Cathy?" Panic started to set in. His pupils dilated until they were huge, and Shannon took his hand. He nearly cut off her circulation.

The terror in his eyes begged her to do something, anything, to save him.

How? What?

"Tell me what you need, honey." His eyelids drifted closed.

"Stay with me, Tom." He opened his eyes at her words. If he fell asleep he might not wake up again. She refused to let him die, damn it.

She sprinted for the kitchen. In the freezer she found ice cubes furry with frost and an old freezer pack. She carried them back to the sofa.

Where should she put them? On his chest? His forehead? For God's sake, why hadn't she ever studied first aid? Her hands shook, but she managed to tuck the cubes into his T-shirt, because she didn't have a clue what else to do.

Cathy smiled at her from the photo, watching every move with her lively brown eyes as though asking her sister-in-law to take care of her man while she was gone. Shannon swore she could detect Chanel No. 5, Cathy's favorite, and smell the kid-sweat of Casey's and Stevie's hair. She almost turned, half-convinced they were about to barrel into the room with mischievous grins to throw themselves into their aunt's arms.

But Shannon's arms were empty. She slid Tom's hand over the picture so she couldn't see their faces.

He was burning up. Most of the ice had already melted

The photo skittered sideways. The rhythm of his breathing changed. His chest rose and fell too rapidly.

"Come on, come on," she whispered to the ambulance, as though the mantra would get the paramedics there any sooner.

The Montana ambulance system was usually pretty quick. Shannon knew a bunch of paramedics in Billings. They were good at their jobs. So why was it taking so long?

"Tom, are you still with me?"

He didn't respond, no longer seemed to recognize her.

"Hey!" she yelled to the super. "Where's the ambulance?"

"I called." He hovered at the apartment door but didn't enter, as though an overdose were contagious. "They said just a couple of minutes."

She heard the pounding on the stairs then, almost mistaking it for her own heartbeat, or maybe Tom's where her fingers sat on his wrist.

When a pair of paramedics entered the room with a stretcher, she said, "He took meth. I don't know how much. I don't know when. Do something. Hurry." Her voice broke. She still gripped Tom's hand even though it had fallen slack.

"Okay, we got him." The paramedic spoke quietly. He eased her away from Tom. "We'll take care of him. We know what we're doing."

She nodded and stepped back, bunching a fist against her mouth.

Calm down. Tom needs you.

The paramedic quickly took her place, kneeling beside Tom. "His blood pressure's through the roof," he told his colleague who stood beside the stretcher and took notes.

Tom looked from one man to the other, confused. When the paramedic tried to take his temperature, he weakly flailed at the man.

"Tom," Shannon said. "Take it easy. These people are here to help."

His throat gurgled.

"What's happening?" Her voice rose an octave. "He's choking on his saliva." The paramedic turned Tom onto his side.

Shannon pressed a hand against her roiling stomach. "Shannon, are you okay?"

At the sound of the deep voice behind her, Shannon turned slowly, giving herself time to put on her game face. Officer Dave Dunlop had entered the apartment.

They had history. She wanted to forget it. He wanted to make up for it.

"Dave," she said, keeping her voice cool enough to discourage familiarity. She was tired of putting him off. He had to get the message one of these days. "It's Tom. My brother."

"Looks like he isn't going to make it."

Shannon gasped. Dave had a habit of being socially inept. Wrong response, wrong time. Not the best trait in a cop.

"For God's sake, Dunlop," one of the paramedics said. "Show some humanity."

Dave grimaced. "S...