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“Dude, I said I don’t have anything.”
The look he passes over me is one of pure confusion. Like the guy simply can’t wrap his head around the fact that I didn’t shove a loaded syringe up my ass just for him before I got arrested.
It isn’t just the guards who look at me and see a drug dealer, apparently. I don’t have the tattoos or apparent affiliations for gang-banging, so drugs are the next most logical conclusion.
“I’m Carson,” the guy announces, clearly changing tactics. “What you in for?”
“A misunderstanding.”
Carson snorts. “You and me both, brother.”
I don’t say anything else, but he isn’t deterred.
“Drake,” I say finally.
“Nice to meet you.” A shiver runs down his body, hard enough that his teeth clack together. “You sure you ain’t holding?”
“Sorry, man.”
“Fuck. I’ve asked everyone who came in today. It’s going to be a bad night.”
“You can’t ask for a nurse and get some help?”
He looks at me like I just suggested the moon is made of heroin and he should fly there for a fix. “You really are new here.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the only way you get to medical is if you’re bleeding out. The guards’ll leave you seizing on the floor with foam coming out your mouth before they get a nurse.”
A call goes over the intercom that lunch is being served. I get up and follow the crowd to where several tray warmers that are taller than I am have been wheeled into the corner of the room. When Carson tries to fall in behind me, I gesture for him to go ahead because the thought of having him at my back makes my skin crawl.
He gives me a grin that is missing teeth. “Much appreciated.”
“No sweat.”
“Never let anybody trade for your bread,” he tells me as he grabs a tray. “The rolls don’t look like much, but they’re made in the kitchen. Everything else comes out of a can.”
I look down at my own tray as it’s handed to me by an inmate wearing a hairnet. This crap isn’t something that I’d feed to my worst enemy’s dog. The roll that Carson appreciates so much looks like a lumpy piece of half-cooked dough. A mysterious meat slurry, canned green beans and a cup of diced peaches with fur on the top make up the rest of the meal.
Carson sets his tray down with a thump, picks up the roll and takes a hearty bite out of it.
I’m going to have to be a lot closer to actual starvation before being able to stomach any of this. Pushing my tray toward him, I watch narrowly as he takes my roll. His grunt of thanks is barely audible around a mouthful of bread.
I make like I’m staring off into space, but keep sight of him on the periphery of my vision. “What did you say you were in for?”
“Possession.”
Makes sense with the story he told, but telling a story is easy. “You must be in a pretty hard way right now.”
His hand shakes with a tremor that is more pronounced than it was a second ago. “You have no idea, man. I know you said you don’t have shit, but I’m here if you change your mind. And let me know if you hear about anyone else holding. I’ll take anything at this point.”
The fact that any human being would put something in their body snuck in here through a prison wallet is just sad. There aren’t many good places to detox without help, but jail has to be among the worst of them.
“How long has it been since you last had something?” I ask, voice oozing sympathy.
“I got here a week ago. Managed to score something the first day, but then the dry spell hit.”
I had a girlfriend in prep school who liked to watch that godforsaken addiction show. The one where they follow some poor asshole around with a camera for a few days and then get all their friends and family to surprise them with an intervention. Quality programming. But I paid enough attention while she was blowing me to have some idea of what it looks like when a heroin addict is forced to dry out.
