“My colleague, Ted, is cranky because we’re dealing with a lot of overdoses lately, and not from marijuana—that’s basically impossible.”
Bryan peeks at Dolores through his interlaced fingers.
“What you seem to have experienced was a panic attack,” she says. “Do you want me to help you wash your face?”
“No. No. I’m fine,” he says, his skin puffy from tears.
“You’re crying?”
“I really did think I was going to die,” he says.
“Jesus Christ,” Ted says, letting himself out the front door, which slams shut behind him. His boots crunch across the mulch outside.
“I pissed him off,” Bryan says. “I piss everybody off.”
“It’s fine. You’re fine, Bryan. Be safe, okay? No more drugs,” Dolores says. She stands up. “And Ted was right—you should have some ice cream.”
On her way out, she passes more family photos, a triptych of cheap 3 x 5 frames—father, mother, and son beaming brightly in all of them. She looks back at Bryan, whose face lies back in his hands.
He doesn’t notice as she slips one of the photos into her jump bag.
*
“You’ve gone soft, Dolores,” Ted says on the drive back. The sun has dropped and the fireflies hover, blinking like aircraft beacons. She rolls the window down. Even in the middle of summer, the air feels cool at night, like standing beside an open refrigerator.
“You were too hard on him. Shouldn’t you be glad to get a call from a kid doing a drug that won’t kill him?” she says. She wants a drink. She can’t. She shouldn’t. She could—but she won’t.
“It was a waste of our time,” Ted says. He pokes his head out of the vehicle and hocks a loogie.
“Oh, that’s just lovely,” Dolores says, thinking, fuck it, she will have a drink.
“How’s Tommy doing?”
“He’s okay. He joined some kid’s football league.” Tommy had mentioned it on the phone last Sunday and Dolores mentally indexed the possible outcomes. Head injuries. Concussions. Bones splintering. Muscles and tendons ripping to shreds. But she couldn’t say a goddamn thing about it to Jay, his father.
“Football, huh?” Ted says, scratching his chin. “Well, sports are good. Tommy’s a good kid, and that’ll keep him good.”
They’re one stoplight away from the fire station. Soon she’ll be free to go home and watch television until she falls asleep. She’s recorded several episodes of a reality show about the wives of professional basketball players.
“You should have him ride along one day so he can see an overdose with his own two eyes, that’ll be a lesson.”
She looks at Ted.
“I’m serious,” he says, banging on the steering wheel. “I’m worried about all these kids.”
“I’ll think about it, Ted,” she says.
After Ted parks the ambulance, she gets out and walks around the back of the building—just in case the woman is there—but of course she’s long gone.