Junk Love.

eight.

The next day, Mel isn't playing music for change. She's playing for product.

Usually she favors singing at industrial neighborhoods -- ones with thrift and antique shops or fancy restaurants and hotels. Very rarely does she brave the slums until she's craving another hit.

Neither she or Carter are faring well that morning. Even at one another their tones are clipped. So far, they've made the streets their own with a sense childishness uninhibited by rules or stigma. Now their steps grow weary with purpose as they sweat and tremble in withdrawal.

Mel's eyes are glazed over when she reaches the desired corner five or more miles from camp. A primitive hunger absorbs all her thoughts like a sponge -- more accurately a cotton swab saturated atop a red hot spoon. She'll drive herself mad daydreaming about it.

Between strumming guitar strings, she passes a metal handmade looking pipe to Carter. Marijuana smoke envelops them in a skunky misty plume. Herb won't cure the sensation of worms crawling under her skin but the smoke takes the edge off.

It's a dreary hood. Even under the most dazzling display these streets would remain decrepit. Sidewalks are gutted by weather. Old fashioned brickwork buildings deteriorate to crumpling gingerbread type structures.

Barely two songs in, the bowl is burnt to a bitter crisp. Mel eyes Carter as he crushes more bud for the second round. Whereas her itch for a stronger hit is mental, his is all physical, or perhaps painful. Mel notices how he rocks back and forth on the edge of the curb, his eyes untamed, and darting.

"Here." Mel offers him the pipe. "All yours."

Carter blows a smoke ring then resumes rocking and staring off into space. Even weed isn't appealing to her when he's so far gone. No matter how hard Mel tries to play an upbeat song the cords eventually go minor only played faster with intensity. His aloof manner is affecting her terribly.

She's interrupted by two lanky kids zipping by on skateboards. They holler like apes as they whip past, narrowly missing her feet. Any other day she would have given up on the corner but, with Carter next to her, she's curious. Each block they pass prompts more and more cars to spill onto the narrow tattered street like the two skaters are a signal for the drivers.

Engines rev, each pumping of the gas pedal evident as a steady roar shakes the bones of buildings already caving in. So many going off at once encases the block in a steady rumble. Mel can feel the asphalt vibrating underneath her from the sheer power of it all.

"Holy shit!" Like a little boy, Carter smiles so wide he puts his hand over his mouth to hide it. "Those are all classic cars. Oh baby!"

For a moment he's positively juvenile, pumping his fist at the spectacle. Among the engine revving, the street is flooded with people spilling out of their vehicles like roaches. Before long Carter and Mel become blended into a thick crowd and blaring metal music.

"What's going on?"

"I have no idea. Maybe a music festival." Carter howels at the sky before acknowledging her again.

Although she's only known him a short time, Mel has yet to see Carter stop moving. She barely has the chance to pack her guitar before he's looping the strap over his own shoulder.

"Follow me." The warmth of his hand around hers is all she needs to be persuaded.

Comparable to a salmon molding upriver, Carter leads her against the hectic ebb of the crowd. A breezy charming laugh seems to levitate a bottle from someone else's possession to his. Even if he were invisible he couldn't be slicker. One of his hands is grasped in Mel's while the other is used to swipe from the pockets of people.