Bart stared at the apartment door where Otto supposedly resided, worried about what might come. He hadn't seen his friend in several years, and the bus driver had reportedly retired earlier this year. Not much came out of the aging principal's mouth, either. Of course, Bart was no longer in Springfield Elementary, he was sixteen, after all.

Catching his breath, Bart knocked on the door, and when there was no response, opened it slightly. But even with the door only ajar, he suddenly caught a whiff of strange odors steaming from the room, odors both indescribable and unpleasant. Bart turned the light switch on, a light that hadn't been replaced in many years, and surveyed the dimly-lit, acrid-smelling room. Otto's apartment was filthy and covered in gunk and junk, a practice that only someone like Otto would do.

"...Otto-man?"

Bart proceeded inside the room as quietly as he could. As he walked forward he felt something crunch underneath, seeing a shattered syringe under his foot, and that's when he knew something was very wrong. The further he got in the room, the better he could view his surroundings and piece together what happened. And he hated the implications.
He could still not find Otto, however, and grew increasingly concerned. The needles were not a good sign. This time he quickened his pace and called out for his friend, searching across the room, careful not to break or trip over anything. And then he heard a muffled groan coming from the bathroom.

The bathroom. It's always the bathroom, Bart thought, heading for the room and bracing for whatever he could find. Even in the faint light he could see Otto's sorry frame lying on his back, having slipped from the toilet. And Bart could see all the telltale signs of drug abuse-he was only 16, but he took a health class and knew when something was wrong. Staring at a friend who was clearly suffering would do no good, so he came closer to Otto and thought about what to do.

So, he kneeled down to his old friend's near-unconscious figure, carefully sweeping away the needles and other drug paraphernalia. Once he got a closer look at Otto's face he could see the terrible condition the former bus-driver was in. Otto's breathing was incredibly faint, the only thing that gave Bart hope and relief that he was still alive. Bart moved him to the side, and although his skin felt cold, he knew he wasn't dead. He took out his cellphone and dialed 911, hoping that they would come as quickly as possible. Hoping that he and Otto wouldn't get in further trouble.

"You'll be okay, Otto-man," Bart tried to reassure him, and to reassure himself, "H-help is on the way."

In the meantime, Bart could only do his best to keep Otto alive. He removed the makeshift belt-tourniquet from his left arm-wincing at the ugly marks he had inflicted, and lifted him up to the couch so he could sit up and breathe better. Bart resisted trying to cry, he still had trouble believing his friend's plight. Otto was just barely conscious, enough that he could stare at him and make slight, pained noises, but had no energy to talk. His eyes were heavily lidded, the skin heavily blackened from lack of sleep. He was so pale and thin that Bart cursed himself for not realizing it all years before.

"Otto. Can you...can you hear me?"

Otto smiled, but otherwise did not respond. Bart took this as a good sign, hopefully.

"You'll...you'll be okay. I called emergency services. You'll be okay, Otto."

Bart wiped his eyes, no longer suppressing tears, "You'll be fine. Help's coming. I love you, Otto-man."

Otto stirred, trying to place a limp and shaky hand to Bart's shoulder, but could not muster the energy to do so. Instead, he wheezily groaned.

"Bart...dude."

Bart's eyes lit up at that moment, holding Otto's hand. He knew somehow that his friend could indeed get better, even if the resulting damage could be permanent. He knew, and hoped that Otto would turn out just fine.

And he could hear sirens.