The man stared at him a few seconds longer, then nodded to one of the men behind him. A hand snaked into the inside of his coat, and Hutch tensed. But it didn't come out with a gun. Held in the dirty fingers was a heroin kit.

Hutch would have preferred a gun.

He was shaking now, fine tremors he could never have faked, as he watched the courier unfold the kit, revealing the familiar bag of white powder, a syringe, a spoon, matches, and candle. Hutch tried to gulp, his throat working uselessly against the raw terror. His fingers clenched and unclenched uselessly. He couldn't go through this again. Not without losing himself for good.

And yet as the greasy little man opened the bag of heroin, the memory returned of how it felt coursing through his system, like fluid relaxation. Nothing had mattered then, nothing had hurt. Like floating along in paradise.

Until you crashed, hard.

The candle was set up and a match scraped against the rough wall, popping into a small flame.

Hutch's heart seemed to be beating against his rib cage, the impulse to run so strong, he had to fight to stiffen his legs against it. Heaven in a needle; he couldn't help but long for it, and fear it worse than death. He wouldn't be able to shake it this time, didn't even have Starsky to turn to. He'd even be willing to give up his partner for a fix soon.

He could still say no. Maybe they'd let him go – he could just say it wasn't worth it for him to go back on the stuff in order to get a job. That didn't seem unreasonable. Of course, he'd also be throwing away his chance to find Starsky. It was possible he'd never learn what happened to his partner.