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One of the junkies was absently slapping his arm. A shrunken woman beside him suddenly waved her hands as if driving away a swarm of invisible insects. One by one other alley dwellers began slapping, waving, and moaning.

At that instant the dealer made a grand entrance with his big Lincoln. Customers flocked around the car like starving pigeons.

He laughed when Leo told him he was kicking the habit. He‚d heard it before.

„Shit. Don‚t you know that junkies never kick it? Not after their brains get scrambled.š

Leo was defiant. „Well, mine‚s not scrambled any more.š

The dealer shook his head, grinning. „Whatever you say, Pal.š Leo left him holding court, ministering to his supplicants.

At two-thirty the next morning Leo awoke with a start, soaking wet. His mind was filled with images of junkies swatting at the air. No! No! He crept from Sam‚s warm bed and hurried downstairs to the kitchen. Leo turned on the light, took out a notepad, and compulsively he began to draw.

He drew for hours. When Sam padded into the kitchen to make coffee, she found him unblinking and cataleptic. The drawings clenched in his hands revealed what no logical mind would ever accept -- why junkies never kick it.

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