Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,1
parents’ comic shop to this… this human wreckage. How had he washed up in my library’s bathroom with a needle stuck in his arm?
It’s not like I’d never been down this road before. You don’t live through the twenty-first century—even in Galt, a countrified little California town near Sacramento—without seeing the effects of the drug crisis. Between heroin and meth, I’d lost five friends from my relatively small high school. Others I knew bounced in and out of rehab.
We’d had a close call when I was an RA in the Porter College dorms in Santa Cruz. I’d had to administer naloxone and call EMS for a student back then—one I’d tried unsuccessfully to help over the course of two roller coaster years. I’d learned a lot back then.
Everybody was chasing something they couldn’t find or running from something they didn’t want to feel. And I found myself on the front lines of a war without training, or equipment, or even a good reason to be there.
Here again I recognized the victim before I administered the drug. Thuong’s was a face that haunted me anyway, one of the many who for whatever reason didn’t seem happy at home but blossomed under the warmth of my parents’ affection. He was a kid who often enough ended up doing his homework at the card tables in the game room on weekdays because he said he could concentrate better there than at his house.
He’d liked math and science and hated creative writing. At one point, he got in a little over his head with calculus and asked me for help. I was home from school on break and started helping him out, both in person and online.
How did Thuong end up here?
Didn’t matter. It wasn’t my circus, except for dumb luck. I wondered if Thuong would even remember me. I was certain he’d at least remember the shop, and my parents, who were going to be fucking devastated if they found out a kid they’d nurtured had nearly OD’d in my library.
I wondered if I should tell them. This would probably end up in the newspaper, tucked into the back with stories like, “Improper storage of gasoline ignites shed fire” and “Church trunk-or-treating cancelled over fears of Satanic interference.” Okay, I made that one up. My church does trunk-or-treating, and so far, Satan hasn’t shown up once.
I didn’t have any illusions that I’d saved Thuong’s life. At best I bought him time. He didn’t know me anymore, and he would probably resent my interference.
So why was I still sitting in the ER three hours later, waiting for news of his progress? Because if I didn’t see for myself, I’d never know if there was anything else I could have done. Because if I didn’t do everything I could, Thuong’s story would end up in the obituaries, and I’d never know if the funeral I’d attend with my parents could have been prevented.
Because I cared what happened to him, even though I wished I didn’t.
There was a minor stir of activity in registration before Thuong walked out of the treatment area. It was pretty obvious he’d ripped an IV out of his arm. He was still tugging his shirt on, but he appeared too shaky to do it without help. I stood and started walking toward him.
A nurse tried to reason with him while she tugged his shirt over his pale abs. “Mr. Beckett, the doctor hasn’t signed your release. There are some people who still want to talk to you—”
“I’m fine.” He didn’t shout, but he was obviously adamant.
Why had the nurse had called him Mr. Beckett when his last name was Harper?
His face was pale, his eyes red rimmed. Black hair that had once probably been styled to look messy hung limply over his eyes. Despite his first name, his ethnicity had always been a mystery to me. I’d never met his parents, so I didn’t know if either was Asian. I just knew, in that moment, that he was paler than I was, and that was saying something.
“Thuong, wait—” I reached his side in time to be treated to a furious glare that reddened his high cheekbones. There wasn’t a hint of recognition. Probably because of my beard. I’d been well into my late twenties before I could grow adequate facial hair. I used to wear contacts to look cool to my peers as well. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d tried to impress anyone.