That was Romelo’s mama. What was she doing here?
I tried to open my mouth to tell her that I was okay, but nothing escaped. My tongue felt thick and swollen and my body wouldn’t respond to what my brain was telling it to do.
Then every went black again.
Sirens.
The sound pierced through the fog in my head. I was moving—being moved, bumped around.
“Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am?”
A man’s voice—deep, urgent, full of tension.
I tried to answer, but my mouth wouldn’t work. I couldn’t see. Then something squeezed my arm tight for a millisecond before releasing.
“Push another round of Narcan.”
“How many pills did she take?”
Another voice—softer, calmer.
“His mom found a prescription bottle without a label. I’m certain it was opioids. It’s so easy to get that nowadays.”
Opioids? Wait. What the fuck?
I wanted to tell them they were wrong. Why the fuck would my mama give me opioids? When she handed me the pills, she didn’t say a word about what they were. All I said was that I needed something to help me sleep.
Everything was too much. Everything hurt so bad. My head throbbed relentlessly.
The voices merged into a low hum I couldn’t decipher. Things kept fading in and out. Dizziness clawed at me. It hurt to open my eyes. The sounds got quieter. Then everything went dark.
My eyes fluttered open, squinting against the bright light. A tall figure loomed over me, pink lips moving, but I couldn’t hear him—my ears were ringing, relentless. Thank God my head didn’t pound anymore, but it was one thing after another. Then I heard beeping—steady, rhythmic—next to my head.
I tried to rub my eyes, then realized my hands were cuffed to the bed.
Metal clinked against metal.
Panic shot through me. I yanked at the cuffs, the cold steel biting into my wrists.This is a mistake. I don’t belong here.
“Get me the fuck outta here!” I screamed, thrashing.
“Hey, hey, hey. Calm down.”
The man in scrubs stood beside me. Kind green eyes, fresh haircut, a perfectly lined goatee.
“Why—” My voice came out raspy, broken. “Why am I?—”
“Ms. Jones, this is standard protocol.” He brought a small penlight into view but didn’t shine it in my eyes. “Look at me. Can you follow the light with your eyes?”
I winced, trying to turn away.
“Good. Pupils are reactive.” He clicked the light off and tucked it away. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Trecee,” I croaked. “Trecee Jones.”
“Good. Who’s the president?”
“Sadly…Donald Trump,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
