But Liam was not built for half-measures. He was the kind of boy who read entire book series in a week, who taught himself guitar chords until his fingertips bled. So when the numbness of weed began to feel like a dull blanket rather than a key to another world, he looked for a sharper lock.
His name was Liam. Or at least, it used to be. Now, when people in town whisper about him—if they whisper about him at all—they just call him “that boy.” The one who used to have it all. The one who threw it away. the boy who lost himself to drugs
Rehab came and went like seasons. Three times. The first time, he left after two weeks. The second, he was kicked out for smuggling in a bag of Xanax. The third time, he finished the program, stood up in a church basement, and said, “I’m Liam, and I’m an addict.” He looked clean. He sounded hopeful. But hope, for Liam, was just another drug with a short half-life. But Liam was not built for half-measures