Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,3
game. Parents and kids thronged the place, and even though we were on that awkward side—close to the entrance, close to the bathroom—at a booth for two, Thuong flinched whenever some kid raised their voice.
“If you want to go somewhere else, we can,” I offered.
“I didn’t want to go anywhere,” he said tightly.
“I know. And I’m really sorry.”
He shrugged and went back to staring into the darkness beyond the window.
The way he held his body, the way droplets of sweat drizzled down his pale skin, told me how uncomfortable he was. Like an animal trying to hide how vulnerable it is, he held himself as still as possible. Utter immobility and flinching seemed to be his default settings.
Okay, I thought. I’m a librarian. I’ve got this.
I took my phone out, determined to find him a place where he could be safe for the night.
“Can I ask you something?” I scrolled through help lines that were little more than adverts for pricey and probably ineffective rehab centers.
“Do I have to answer?”
“I’d prefer it.”
“Go on.” He splayed his hands on the table as though he might need to leap up and run.
“Do you have some kind of plan in mind for keeping yourself safe tonight?”
He shook his head. “Nobody’s going to take me like this.”
“That remains to be seen. If I can find you a bed somewhere safe, would you let me take you there?”
He eyed me critically. “Depends.”
“On what?” He didn’t look like he’d answer, but I had nothing to lose. “You overdosed today. Has that ever happened to you before?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I take it you’ve been using for a while?”
“Not... not this. Not injecting. That was… a mistake.”
“You checked yourself out AMA?”
“I’m strung out and uninsured. I don’t want to talk to shrinks or read pamphlets about twelve-step programs. My ‘higher power’ is obviously off the clock.”
“Twelve step isn’t the only game in town. Answer me this: Do you want to continue using?”
He sneered. “Is that a trick question?”
“No, I want an honest answer. Either way, you can figure out a safer plan. I might be able to help.”
“How could you help?” he asked.
My turn to frown. “Call it a hunch, but I doubt you want today’s events to reoccur.”
“Not really.”
“Thuong—”
“Why the fuck do you call me that? What did I say when I was coming around?”
“Nothing. As soon as the cops and EMTs showed up, they shoved me aside.”
“And?”
“You have a fake ID in the name Christopher Beckett. They called you that in the hospital.
His eyes widened.
“I didn’t correct them or anything.”
He tensed. “You call me Thuong.”
“Because it’s your name.”
He sat back with a thud. “Tug. No one calls me Thuong anymore.”
“Okay. I should call you Tug?” He nodded. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I don’t want to use.” It shouldn’t have been so hard to look into his eyes, but it was. I hated the suffering painted there. “But I probably won’t ever stop.”
I took my time before replying. It helped that the waitress who came over brought coffee. The mug gave me something to hold. It kept my hands from trembling noticeably.
I’d done a small amount of crisis training when I got the Narcan. Behavioral health was my cousin Echo’s specialty, and she made me go over ways to talk to people having substance abuse issues. She’d expect me to begin a dialogue with Tug about whether he wanted help. But if I said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing—even if I failed to school my features perfectly—I could drive Tug away and into God knew what.
I ordered oatmeal and asked for chocolate milk for Tug.
“Hold on. Just ice water please,” he told her with a visible wince. “Nothing from a cow. Christ.”
After the waitress left, I turned back to see he’d picked up his napkin to use as a makeshift tissue.
“Here.” I pulled a travel pack of Kleenex from my belt bag and slid them to him. “If you’re going to keep using, look into harm reduction. Local needle exchange programs, for example, reduce the risk of blood borne illnesses. Test strips can detect fentanyl. If you’re going to use—”
“Wow. You’re a fountain of information,” he placed his hands on the table in preparation to stand.
“Wait. I’m not, but I can put you in touch with someone who is. She can help you, whatever you want to do. That’s her job. She works with Community Behavioral Health Services at the San Francisco Department of Health.”