December 1994
He perches the needle on the edge of the sink and turns on the tap with his elbow.
Dad's passed out on the couch and Sammy's sitting with him, the only sound the hiss of the water. It makes odd swirling patterns, veins of clear and pink flowing over the clouded porcelain, and he's quite content to just stand and watch it for a while.
Then he eyes the needle, lying in a pool of diluted red, and makes a mental note to disinfect it. As soon as he's sure his hands won't start shaking.