Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,15
to me while Gayle stayed with Tug.
“Tough night, huh?” she said.
“You could say that.” The hot coffee hit my tongue with a welcome, if acrid, flood of flavor.
“I know it might not look that way, but time is progress.”
“Can you tell me how long the acute withdrawal symptoms last?”
“Hard to say. Likely a week. You only have to worry about the first couple days. Those aren’t the worst, believe it or not. Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“No.”
“Gayle will message you a list of things to look out for—primarily dehydration. He hasn’t been injecting that long, at least that’s what he says. He doesn’t have any family to help?”
“No.”
“From my experience, people don’t appear on earth spontaneously. Maybe if you get him to open up to the possibility of calling his relatives, he might try that.”
“My parents played surrogate sometimes.”
“You think they’d help?”
“They would. Absolutely. But I’m not asking them to. And don’t you dare tell them about this. They’ll get all involved, and if things go poorly—”
“May I point out the whole pot-kettle thing you have going on?”
I shrugged. “I knew going in what I was getting myself into. I won’t let my parents get sucked into some heroin addict’s drama.”
Echo winced visibly. Her gaze rested on something behind me. I turned and found Gayle and Tug standing there.
“Tell me how you really feel.” Tug tightened his fists.
Oh, here we go. “Sorry. It’s harsh, but I don’t want to tell my parents what happened yet, if ever. My mom would freak if she knew how close you came to dying.”
“Understandable.” Gayle put her hand on Tug’s shoulder. “There will be time for reunions later.”
“I’ll be here with you until we take you to the facility,” I reminded him. “I have friends who will bring things if we need them. I hope that will be enough for now.”
“More than,” Tug spoke through his clenched jaw.
After he returned to the dismal room, Gayle joined us and wrapped her arms around me. Echo hugged me from the other side.
“Good man. You keep those boundaries solid.” Gayle patted me once and let me go.
“But don’t be cynical,” Echo offered. “If he gets to a place where he’s working a program, maybe your parents’ support will help.”
“We’ll see.” That was way off in the future as far as I was concerned.
I waved as they drove away, feeling a little like a coast guard sailor dropped off on some uninhabitable rocky atoll to keep watch for enemy aircraft. After being outside, our room smelled like sweat and funk and vomit and shit. The first thing I did was open a window.
“I brought you some coffee drinks.” I handed him the bag. “They’re sweet.”
He took one from me. It opened with the hiss-pop of a vacuum seal.
“I don’t blame you for not telling your parents.” He took a sip, swirled the liquid around his mouth, and then downed half in one go. “I’m disgusting.”
“They wouldn’t see you that way.” I sat opposite him and contemplated my coffee. “They see the good in everyone.”
A weak smile tiptoed over his lips. “That’s why I used to hang out at the shop, remember?”
“They always liked you. We all did.”
“Past tense, I know.”
“Tug, you don’t actually believe I’d be here if I didn’t like you, do you?”
He lowered his gaze. “No.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I don’t think your mom would like me anymore though. She always told me how smart I was, but obviously—”
“Everyone makes bad decisions.”
He capped the coffee. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. “A little goes a long way right now.”
“Maybe you should lie down while you can.”
He nodded, put down the drink, and slipped into his bed.
“Think you can drink some water too?” I asked.
He shook his head and turned over. The way he pulled the covers tight made me think he had chills again.
“Want the blankets?”
He nodded his head.
I draped the covers over him and tucked him in. Within minutes he was shivering enough to shake the bed. I’d begun to think I could read the signs. So far, sweats and chills preceded another round of nausea, vomiting, and muscle cramps. Like a surfer watching for waves in the ocean, I tried to anticipate the next hurdle, but often I was wrong. It was probably only magical thinking—like pressing a button repeatedly to make an elevator come faster.
Tug finally settled enough for me to get a little sleep. I drifted off sitting in the worn armchair next to the stripped down second bed.