Page 238 of Don’t Say Mafia

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My husband,” I said, the words tumbling over each other. “He’s—he’s shaking, he threw up, he won’t wake up. Please.”

“Ma’am, I need you to stay calm,” the operator said in a level, practiced voice. “Is he breathing?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, pressing my hand to his chest, feeling it rise and fall in uneven jerks. “Yes, but it’s all wrong.”

“Okay. I need you to look around the room,” the operator continued. “Do you see any medication bottles, alcohol, or substances nearby?”

My gaze swept the living room in a frantic blur, registering the couch, the lamp, the rumpled rug—until it caught on the coffee table, where a small plastic bag lay open in plain sight. For a second, my brain refused to process what I was seeing.

Ryan smoked weed. I knew that. I’d fought with him about it, tolerated it, and rolled my eyes about it. It had been stupid and immature and frustrating, but it hadn’t been . . . this.

This wasn’t a joint tucked behind his ear or something you laughed off with a promise to cut back.

This was white powder in a bag sitting in the middle of our living room.

My stomach dropped.

No. No, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do that.

My eyes flicked back to his shaking body, to the vomit on the carpet, to the way his jaw clenched and unclenched without rhythm.

“Ma’am?” the operator prompted gently.

My voice came out hoarse. “There’s—there’s something on the coffee table. A bag. I think it’s . . . I think it’s drugs.”

“What does it look like?”

“White powder,” I whispered.

He had stood in our bedroom this week in clean clothes and damp hair and told me he was getting a job and that he wasn’t going to lose me.

And he had done this instead.

“I didn’t know,” I said under my breath, more to myself than the operator. “I didn’t know he was doing anything like this.”

Ryan’s body jerked again, and I flinched.

“Stay with me,” the operator said. “I need you to tell me exactly where you are.”

I rattled off the address, my eyes burning as tears streamed down my face.

Sirens came faster than I expected, red and blue light slicing through the window, washing the apartment in colors that made everything look unreal. The door burst open moments later, and paramedics filled the space.

They moved me gently but firmly out of the way as they checked his vitals, rolled him onto his back, and fitted an oxygen mask over his face. One of them asked me questions while the other worked, their voices blending together in a blur.

“What did he take?”

“Does he have any medical conditions?”

“How long has he been like this?”

“I don’t know,” I kept saying, the words tasting like failure. “I don’t know.”

They lifted him onto a stretcher and clicked the straps into place . . . and suddenly he was being wheeled away from me, toward the door, toward a future I couldn’t see past the next five minutes.

“Can I come?” I asked, already following them.