The Fight.

Clea met Tyler when she was thirteen and he was fifteen. Her father used to deal drugs and he had dropped by their house to buy some. He had been a scrawny, pale, teenage boy whose face looked like it was tired from having to carry all of the world's problems on it.

Clea looked like that at the time too. She had noticed the similarities between them. Scrawny; check. Pale; check. Rugged hair; check. Depressed face; check.

He stood around the walkway, while Clea sat at the porch playing with stones. He ignored her until she spoke to him.

"What do you want?"

"Uhm..." he was very nervous and kept rubbing his hands on his washed-out jeans. "Some of the stuff your dad sells."

Clea looked at the door. A ruckus was going on inside between her parents, one that forced her outside. "Now's not the right time. Come back at night."

"I need it now, though. Like, immediately." He was jittery.

"You've been using it?"

"No, this is going to be my first time."

She swallowed. "Why do you want to sta