I wore a button-up shirt because those are dramatic to strip out of.

It was four in the afternoon and my performance was in an hour. I wasn't ready. Never will I be, but that didn't matter. The boot doesn't wait for the bug's last wishes.

I was beginning to button myself up when there was a knock on my door. Twice.

"Come in."

The door swung open and the young servant boy from earlier stood there with a mountain of clothes his own size in arms. He fumbled with them and staggered for balance.

You and me both, buddy.

I stepped aside to beckon him towards the bed.

He staggered in, eyes shifting from the mountain of clothes, to his feet, to me. He tried to steer towards the bed, but ended up turning too hard. The tip of the  laundro-mountain didn't turn with him, and fell in a distinctly avalanche-ian manner. He tried to grab it, lost his balance, and fell with a distinctly Cinderella manner.

I eyed him.

Well, at least you had a soft landing.

He emerged from the pile of clothes, lifted his head up and surveyed the hostile landscape, namely my bed, my closet, the TV, my table and me.

His nose scrunched up, like he's gonna sneeze or something. But then he squinted his eyes and made a sound like a pig snorting, followed by a low, nosy whistle.

Oh God, this one is crying.

I rolled my eyes. Where do they get these kids? Turning back to the mirror, I began to button up again. The kid kept whining.

First button, hooked.

I mean, it wasn't rare for the gangs to hire kids. Most of the hands we have are recruited as kids. And when you have kids, you have whiners.

Second button, hooked.

Street kids. Kids going around selling flowers. Kids left to the footpath by their parents. Kids just afraid and tired of being alone at this point.

I looked behind me. The one in my room couldn't be older than ten. He was picking up the clothes with shaking fingers.

Third button, hooked.

But there was a riddle. As far as I knew, father never took in children. You couldn't get them to do everything, they need constant babysitting, and half of them won't even make it to adulthood. A bad investment.

So who was this child?

I buttoned up the rest with obscure thoughts. The kid piled all my clothes on my bed again. They would go to the closet. He tried to pick them up all at once.

"You're gonna fall again," I finally said, "take three at a time."

The kid couldn't have looked more shocked if he was struck by lightning. His eyes bulged out and lips puffed up. He turned up his little nose and started shaking.

Oh God, why me?

I walked to the table and groped around for the TV remote. It was stuck between two stacks of books. I pointed at the TV and clicked. Witness to my excellent marksmanship, the red dot underneath vanished away.

News came up. I shifted through the channels— it was there somewhere, I often accidentally came across it. I heard a hiccup and saw the kid sitting on my bed, looking at the TV.

At channel number twenty four, Cartoon Network came up. Some dumb show with unidentified Cockroach-looking cartoon creatures being chased by a cat or something came up.

"There," I tossed the remote on the bed, "Happy?"

The kid was watching so intently he didn't even respond.

Ungrateful little prick-nosed brat.

I diverted my attention back to my spilled clothes. Honestly, I thought, I ought to organize my own clothes. I'm the one using the closet, so I know best where goes the pants, where the shirts and where the underwears.

It took a while. It actually took a little while longer than I thought it would, what with folding the clothes to put them in. The brat didn't help me.

"Hey, brat," I called when I'm done.

The brat didn't respond.

The damn audacity.

I walked to him and touched him.

"Hey!"

He snapped towards me and met my eyes. And then he started shaking.

And that's when it seemed odd to me.

I mean, I understand being surprised. I also understand being scared. But this was the third time already. There are only so many times you can be surprised by the same thing.

And he was shaking a little too much for simple crying. It bordered more towards muscle spasms.

My mind had already reached a conclusion.

I pulled my face closer to his, and looked into his now obviously pained and confused eyes.

His pupils were dilated like little coins of darkness. His chin was fever hot under on my palm.

My mouth scrunched into a scowl.

"You do opium, kid?"

The brat practically jumped away from my hands, shaking his head vigorously.

Not only did he do opium, he was in withdrawal from it.

"Kid," I called. He looked me in the eyes. His eye were watery.

"Tell me the truth," I patted the bed, "Do you do drugs?"

He stayed silent for the longest time, then he looked at my hand on the bed and said, "Vaang."

I nodded. Vaang was the low quality, widespread version of opium. I had heard of kids being drugged to be controlled. But this was the first time I actually saw it happen.

So, what do you do when someone's in withdrawal?

I reached for my drawer. The drawer was my ground. My secret base. My holy personal place to hoard shit.

So it always contained sustenance.

Worthy ones.

I pulled out a Snickers bar and offered it to the brat. The brat took it in hand, tenderly, like a hand grenade.

He's probably more used to seeing the later.

"Eat it," I said, wondering if I have to peel the wrapper for him. To my relief, I didn't. At least he knew enough to not eat the wrapper. I grabbed a Snickers bar myself and joined him.

And we were silently sitting on our bed, eating chocolate and watching cartoons, when another servant came in.

"Our guests have arrived, young master," he spoke in what passed as polite tone, "Your father demands your presence."

Here we go.

(Yes, yes, I agree with all the doctors[and knowledgeable not-doctors] out there that dilated pupils and fever does not decisively conclude that it's an opium withdrawal. Please don't try this on someone you. You're gonna offend them like nothing else.]