They visit the restroom like two women. A pair. Danny walks behind Matt, careful and slow-the product of exhaustion. Not alcohol. Not a drop in his system. Not for a year. Almost a year.

Danny hovers in the corner as Matt claims a urinal. The music from the party booms from room to room. The bass thrums across the floors, under doors, and pounds in Danny's head.

Five feet away, unmarked envelopes and silver credit cards line a row of basin sinks-art-deco squares-while several members of the cast flirt with their reflections in the mirrors. Their knuckles brush their noses. Polished black marble shines under hot halogen fixtures. Stray lines of powder dust the counters.

Sweat beads on Danny's forehead as he blinks, swallows, and presses his back to the wall.

When Matt steps to the sink, his eyes flicker to the envelopes and white residue before they settle on Danny in the mirror. Transparently concerned. Attentive. Danny focuses on Matt's face until Matt wraps an arm around his shoulders and silently steers him toward the door.

"I'm done for the night," Matt says. "My head feels like it's about to explode. You want to bug out?"

"Yeah, sure."

Matt squeezes the nape of Danny's neck. "Danny?"

"Yeah?" he shouts as he opens the door and wades into the thick noise of the party.

"You okay?" The music and buzz of conversation nearly drown out the question, but Danny catches it.

"I'm fine," he says-not a lie-uncertain that Matt could hear him. So he adds a quick nod and, relieved, lets Matt lead him home.