"Thirty four. Thirty five. Thirty six. Thirty seven. Thirty eight. Thirty nine. Forty. Forty one..." Matt kept counting, his knees pulled close to his chest as he rocked back and forth. His therapist or doctor or whatever the hell they were in this place had told him that it might distract him from his withdrawals, but it wasn't working. All he wanted was to shoot up and pass out somewhere and forget what was happening. He'd been told that time passed differently here, but he still wondered if his band mates had found him in the real world. Had they been angry? Or concerned? The bell rang for dinner. Matt's first instinct was to ignore it, but then his therapist would find out and would come talk to him, and Matt didn't particularly want that. He stood up and looked himself up and down in the mirror. Sleepless nights had left dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were slightly crumpled, but no more so than usual. He pulled his sleeves down, covering the worst of his marks, and forced himself to walk to the dining hall. He got his tray of food and walked to his usual table, sitting at it. He wondered if he'd have to go through withdrawal whenever he got home. Because if he did, he was going to end up relapsing again. The only reason he hadn't done so yet was because he didn't have any access to heroin and they didn't even have any opiate substitutes like methadone to keep the cravings away.