I stick needles in arms for a living.

It’s a legit job; it’s not like I teach people to shoot up. I just stick people. They have to get their drugs somehow.

Oh, there’s other parts of my job, sure, but people say I’m the best at finding veins. It’s a gift, I guess. One that doesn’t pay me nearly enough, but I do it anyway.

Yesterday, I just felt like I was going through the motions, like it didn’t matter. Swabbing down both of the man’s arms, inserting the needles, hooking up the lines, checking and double checking. All of it just felt so damn futile.

He’d never make it.

I didn’t ask his name. I didn’t ask about his family. I didn’t ask about his career. I didn’t want to know, and I wouldn’t even look him in the eye. I just walked away.

“Any last words?â€? I heard a deep voice ask from behind me.

“I just want every single person here to know,â€? the man said, pausing just long enough for me to look over my shoulder to face him, “that I didn’t do it.â€?

Seven minutes later, he was dead.