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Colin Quinn was sitting in my dark family room with me. We were drinking, and he asked if I minded if he would "shoot up." I did not care. He pulled out a syringe and, with utter casualness of someone who was jaded, stabbed it into the back of his hand without even looking at it. The moment he did that, the back of my own hand also felt the wickedly unnerving twinge. He did it again a short while later, and I felt it again. I wondered if this meant that I would also be feeling the effects of whatever drug he was injecting. I started rapidly moving my eyes around to try to test how drunk I was at this point. My cat was near me, and when I looked at her, I realized I was having great difficulty in stopping my eyes from rapidly moving around. I noticed that I was holding a syringe now. I stared carefully at the tip of the needle, and wiped it on my pants. My first priority was the safety of my cat, so I made sure to put the syringe down away from her. A short while later, it was light in my house, and a few friends were there. There was a decorative stained wood paneling that lined the walls of my family room, starting at the floor and going up about one meter high. The top edge of this wood paneling was lined with a white powder residue. I showed this to Mike, and I traced my finger all along the residue. He licked his finger and quickly touched the residue with some hesitation, as though I was obliging him to do so.