IT WAS MOSTLY quiet in the house as Reagan stared through the glass door that led out back, watching the light of sun dim further into a darkened gray. The only sound that tethered her to reality was Gracie, giggling every time that Dave did something to amuse her.

Impressively enough, he'd managed to keep the atmosphere around their daughter light-hearted all throughout the evening. Despite Reagan having bursted through the front door, out of breath with a manic look in her eyes, Dave had played the calm card. While Reagan had spent the better half of the last several hours trying to compose herself, Dave had assumed the responsibility of keeping Gracie entertained.

That bothered Reagan a little bit. Not because she wasn't pleased with Dave's ability to be an attentive parent, even in a crisis, but because she seemingly had failed at that herself.

They'd been waiting around, lingering by the phone as they held their breath for news on Kurt. According to Nirvana's management team, Kurt would be fine.

For now.

That reassurance wasn't enough for Reagan. At what point did Kurt's pitfalls become something more serious? When would the world finally stop turning in the name of concern for him? Life or death concern, and not just the write off that one day, he would pull through.

It depressed Reagan. The day had been mottled with sadness, but everyone was already on the fast track to tidying up the mess that Kurt had left behind. Damage control concerning the rampant media reports, zipped lips about what had really happened.

"Accidental overdose," Dave had said hollowly earlier in the afternoon.

Reagan had stared at him incredulously. He couldn't have possibly believed that. Naturally, the gaping despair behind Dave's brown irises had given him away. As smart as he was, he didn't buy the junk story that had been fed to both him and Krist.

Whatever had happened in Rome had not been an accident.

Reagan wondered if it would ever stop. It felt so silly, so juvenile to stare out the window towards Elliot Bay and wish fruitlessly for a change. The coffin that they were all collectively crammed into was waiting for its final nail to be driven in. It was only a matter of time.

She reached down to the end table by the couch, raising the stiff drink that Dave had poured for her to her mouth. He wasn't drinking, but she was. Sweet, considerate Dave, who had so much more to lose than just the future of his band, had tended to Reagan that night. She was the one who got to tip back whiskey, washing away the ache in her chest with its amber warmth.

Meanwhile, Dave had contented himself with stopping time in order to play with his daughter. In that moment, their problems did not exist. It was just him and Gracie on the living room floor, plunging their hands into her pile of toys.

Reagan swallowed down the gulp of whiskey as her throat tightened. She thought about how Kurt must have felt, or how he must have looked. The question of his mood was really prodding at her brain — if this fiasco had been deliberate on his end, he was likely pissed to still be alive.

But then again, she didn't know. She wasn't sure. Reagan was no longer certain about Kurt's future, not that it had been her responsibility to place bets on it in the first place. Regardless, his life had become so tightly knotted with hers and Dave's. From the get go, that was how it had been.

The blanket of darkness that had sheathed Kurt's world had once seemed so foreign to her under a different set of circumstances. Familiar in several ways, but still far removed from her personal life.

Drug addiction. Heroin. Reagan had grown up seeing the rockstars of her favorite bands fall victim to their battles with drugs. She could still remember early on in nineteen-ninety, when her closely knit group on the music scene had suffered their greatest loss yet. Andrew Wood. That had cut people deep, Reagan included. She would never forget the bright light that had shone right through Andrew's flesh and bones when he'd been on stage. She'd been seeing him perform all the way back to his Malfunkshun days.

But even then, it hadn't been personal. She hadn't known Andrew more than what she'd seen while he'd been on stage. She hadn't personally known any of the talented musicians that had struggled or passed on from drugs, not to the point of depth in which she knew Kurt. Hell, Reagan was beginning to suspect that she'd merely been clueless. How many of her friends and fellow musicians had been on drugs, heroin even, without her knowledge?

How blind had she been to the drugs and their permeance into her treasured little world?

She regretted that. It was enough to make her jaw clench. She'd been so stupid to think that drugs wouldn't barge into her personal space or inflict chaos on her happiness some day. How naive she'd been to assume that none of her friends, nobody that she truly cared about, would end up streaked with track marks.

Reagan looked over her shoulder. Dave was smiling, passing blocks into Gracie's grasping hands as they built a tower. She felt a wave of nausea when she considered that they were the lucky ones. Together, they had a family. Happiness. Even in the midst of Dave's disorienting rock stardom, they'd found relative normalcy.

She couldn't, she wouldn't, blame the people who'd been in their same position and gone in a different direction. It was obvious that others would. It was so easy for everyone else to point fingers when they weren't the one struggling with a needle hanging halfway out of their arm.

Reagan couldn't blame Kurt, no more than she could blame herself. He'd told her already that he didn't want this. He didn't want to be a junkie. But what choice did he have when heroin had already planted its poisonous seed in his brain and wrapped its long, searing strands of persuasion around his mind and heart?

"Mama," Gracie chirped. Reagan took a deep breath, steeling her face into an expression that was anything but grim. She faced her daughter, twisting her lips into a forced smile.

"Hi baby," she said softly. Dave looked up at Reagan and she could tell that his smile was suddenly forced, too.

"Play," Gracie instructed, holding up a block.

She didn't have to ask again. Reagan set her drink down and sank to the floor, tucking her legs beneath her. She helped Gracie and Dave build up their tall castle of blocks until Gracie decided that she wanted to knock them down — Dave did the honors, nudging the wobbly structure over until it clattered to pieces. Gracie squealed with delight.

The visual evidence of Gracie's happiness eased some of Reagan's pain. She could see why Dave had been so at ease, playing like a little kid on the living room floor with his daughter while everything fell apart around him. It was nice to forget the heavy for awhile.

When it came time to put Gracie to bed, Reagan and Dave completed the task together. They walked Gracie, her head lolling onto Dave's shoulder, into her room and dimmed the lights. Dave sat down in the creaky rocking chair situated in the corner and Reagan sat on the floor, stretching one arm up so that she could run her fingers through Gracie's growing wisps of hair.

Dave sang. The sound of his voice, the very husky whisper of it coursing over the sweetest melody, brought tears to Reagan's eyes. She looked into her lap as tears poured silently down her face. It was as if he was singing to them both, relaxing them into a state of calm. When Dave sang to Gracie, everything was simple. But knowing what awaited them outside their temporary bubble of joy broke Reagan's heart.

She helped Dave lay Gracie down and drape her blanket, Kurt's blanket, over her. Dave took Reagan's hand as they walked out of her room.

Reagan debated on speaking first. It was the first time that they were truly alone since she'd arrived home, but she didn't know what to say. Comforting Dave seemed like a good idea, but there was no sturdy reassurance that she could give him. It would have been cruel of her to suggest that Kurt would be okay when she herself couldn't admit that.

She returned to her drink and drained it in one sip. The hot burn in her throat made her want another.

"Reags," Dave said quietly. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and his face taut.

Reagan got her first good look at him that night. She could truly see his face, all of his heartbreak etched across his features. He didn't have to hold himself together anymore now that Gracie was asleep. The pain was real and very much alive. He was hurting too.

"I want to say that I can't believe this, but that's a lie," Reagan whispered. "I can believe it. And that part kills me the most."

Wordlessly, Dave crossed the living room and took Reagan into his arms. She held him tightly, inhaling one rattling breath that raked down her throat like splintered glass.

"It's gonna' be okay," he murmured. "It's bad right now, but it's gonna' be okay."

"Don't lie."

To that, Dave didn't reply. Reagan almost wished that he would. She wanted him to speak the truth out loud. Their best friend, their brother by choice, was too far gone.

"What do you want me to say?" Dave whispered. He drew back out of Reagan's arms and gently ran the pad of his thumb across her cheekbone. She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar roughness of his calloused skin on hers.

"I'm actually starting to think that there are no words for this," she said.

"He's going to be okay. You were there when Danny called. He's going to be fine."

"Physically fine. Just physically."

"You can't write him off yet."

Reagan's eyes watered again. "You think I want to do that? You think I'm ready to say my goodbyes to him?"

"Don't," Dave said. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, holding one hand up. Reagan waited for him to say no more, but he was speechless. She watched as the hard line of his mouth trembled, like he was going to cry.

"I'm sorry," Reagan whispered. "I didn't . . ."

"I know you didn't. It's not you."

Dave walked away and slumped onto the couch, leaning forward with his elbows propped onto his knees. He took two deep breaths, staring at the carpet before his eyes drifted shut again.

"I'd never met anybody like Kurt before," he began, his voice so soft that Reagan had to strain to hear him. "When Buzz got us introduced, I didn't know whether or not to laugh my ass off or run for the fuckin' hills. I just knew that he was talented. And that he cared about music like I did."

Reagan listened quietly, swallowing every bit of thickness that climbed up her throat.

Dave shook his head to himself and laughed humorlessly. "I didn't know what was going to happen. I knew we were going to have fun. Make a record or two. I wasn't banking on this shit to actually take off. The only thing I did count on was having the time of my life with them. Kurt and Krist."

Those words shattered Reagan's resolve. Her tears came, fresh and plentiful as she raised the back of her hand to her mouth to keep it from quivering. She didn't want to Dave to hear the pained sound of her cries.

"I feel like such an idiot," he muttered. "Kurt and I took shit all the time. It was nothing if we dropped some acid and called it a night. I . . . I just wonder if I could have done more. If I could have helped stop this shit before it really got going."

"Dave, you-," Reagan began thickly.

He cut her off. "I know. Kurt made his own decisions. But you have no idea how badly I wish that I could have made a difference."

Reagan joined him on the couch, wrapping her arm around his slender waist. Dave's eyes were getting red around their rims, looking glossier than before as he turned his face towards her.

"You know what I wanted as a kid?" he asked, his voice shaking. "I wanted to be this. I wanted to see my band on the cover of Rolling Stone. I wanted to play shows every night to fans. I wanted to make music. But I never . . . I never considered . . ."

Finally, his voice broke. Dave hung his head forward and inhaled, but the sound of air whistling down his throat was strangled by a sob.

"Dave," Reagan whispered. She squeezed her arm tighter around him.

"I didn't think this would happen," Dave choked out. "I never thought I'd have to watch my . . . my friend go through this. I don't want him to die, Reags. I'm so fucking scared."

"I'm scared, too."

"Shit happened so fast. One minute we're happy, we're all good, and now . . . I don't know. I can't do this. I can't wake up every day not knowing if someone I love isn't going to be there anymore."

Crying silently, Reagan leaned her forehead onto Dave's shoulder. It was inevitable that his pain became hers. They had been in it together from the start, in every facet of the start of this new life.

"I love him, Reags," Dave said. He slid the palm of his hand over his mouth and dragged it down his chin, fighting tears despite being so close to them. "This wasn't supposed to be a part of the plan. It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

Of course it hadn't. Reagan could not dream of a scenario in which Dave's childhood aspirations had included the downfall of his band's lead singer. He didn't deserve it. Kurt didn't deserve it. But mostly, Reagan ached for the boy that Dave had been, wishing and hoping for his big break to come without knowing that it would lead to this. The heartbreak of watching a friend slip away.

"I know you love him," Reagan said, speaking into Dave's neck. She reached one hand up to cradle his face, knowing her tears were soaking his skin. "I love him, too."

"It's not enough," Dave whispered. His voice cracked again. "It's just not enough."