Page 65 of Switch!

And that means it can get boring, although the downtime has helped me come to terms with losing Caleb’s body, mostly thanks to the counselling sessions Jesse has been attending. We’re both trying to accept that death is an inevitable part of life, and that tragedies happen no matter how much we wish they wouldn’t. Grieving the injustices of the world is okay as long as we don’t dwell there for too long. Jesse and I have reached a point where obsessing over the accident is no longer productive. We’ve needed a distraction, and here it is!

The ambulance races through downtown Tacoma, sirens howling. I hope the scene we arrive at isn’t too gruesome. I’m picturing a dilapidated boarded-up building, a scrawny junkie inside with a syringe sticking out of his arm. He’ll probably be foaming at the mouth, or maybe choking on his own vomit. Does that mean Jesse will need to perform CPR on him? Yuck!

Jesse doesn’t share my misgivings. He misses the adrenaline rush that accompanies this part of the job and is grateful to have something to occupy his attention. That’s good because I plan to keep him busy. The next psychic fair is this weekend and—

The ambulance veers toward the curb and screeches to a halt. The neighborhood we’re in isn’t seedy like I imagined. The houses are old but well maintained.

“If it’s Oxycontin again,” Stan grumbles, “we’re going to find the factory where they make the damn stuff and blow it up!”

“I’ll grab the Narcan,” Jesse says, moving toward the rear of the ambulance.

Stan follows him, grabbing other equipment while calling out what we should bring. I find the names confusing, but Jesse knows his stuff. He grabs a suction device for clearing airways and a mask that can pump oxygen back in, which I hope means we won’t need to kiss any vomit-encrusted lips. Both men have already pulled on latex gloves. Once they have what they need, they haul ass to the front door.

Stan knocks, but he doesn’t wait before opening the door and calling, “Paramedics! We’re here to help. Where are ya?”

No answer.

“Paramedics,” Stan shouts again as they push their way inside. “We’re the good guys, so please don’t kill us!” He worries about getting shot, having heard too many horror stories from paramedics who arrived at the wrong address or entered the home of someone who was unhinged. Still no answer. After making the sign of the cross, Stan leads the way to the living room.

The scene is surprisingly domestic. No bags of drugs are being measured on the coffee table. Nobody is snorting lines of white powder or convulsing on the floor. They’d have to clear away the plastic rainbow clutter first. Surrounded by discarded toys, a little boy stands in front of a television while watching singing puppets on the screen. His head turns toward us, but his body keeps bobbing and shaking, as if our intrusion isn’t a good enough reason for him to stop dancing.

“Who are you guys?” the boy asks, placing two tiny fists on his hips. He can’t be more than three.

“We’re the doctors,” Stan says, falling to one knee and making his normally gruff voice sound childlike and friendly. “Where’s your mommy? Or your daddy? I heard they were sick.”

The little boy points to a hallway. “Do you have a amboo-linse?”

“Sure do,” Stan says. “We’ll show it to you as soon as we’ve helped…” He stands, his voice returning to normal. “Whoever. Be right back, kid.”

He rushes down the hall. Jesse starts to follow, then doubles back and locks the front door. The last thing he wants is for the child to go outside to see the ambulance and wander into the street. Once the door is secured, Jesse races through the living room, shooting the boy a smile along the way.

I’m dreading what we’ll discover. A bloated corpse? Someone in the throes of a seizure? Jesse thinks of Caleb again before shoving away the mental image. No time for that now. Voices are coming from behind one of the doors, so that’s where he goes. Inside a bedroom, a body is on the mattress, but it’s very much alive. In fact, the man is pressed into the far corner, his legs pulled up to his chin as he stares wide-eyed at the angry paramedic who is yelling at him.

“For the last time,” Stan snarls. “I’m not the police, and I’m sure-as-hell not Santa Claus! I don’t care how naughty or nice you’ve been. You called us, sir. Now what did you take?”

The man shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Stan notices me and huffs in frustration. “He’s too lively for it to be opiates. Take a look around. Start with the bathroom, then the kitchen.”

The man’s eyes go wide. “Oh god, youarethe police!”

“No,” Stan growls, “but we’re about to call them.”

Jesse drops his gear on the dresser and rushes into the adjoining bathroom. He does a quick sweep of the counter before opening the medicine cabinet. The only prescription he finds is for allergies. Stan’s advice to check the kitchen seems odd until I remember that’s where my mom kept her medications. Jesse goes there and is about to start opening cabinets when he notices something on the table: a flat cardboard rectangle like the brand of gum he prefers, but the blister pack that is sticking out is partially filled with dark brown squares. Chocolate?

Jesse grabs the package to read the small text printed on the side.Serving size: one piece. Active ingredients: 10mg THC extract.Edibles. Cannabis-infused chocolate. Jesse is about to laugh when he hears the little boy singing along with the television program. He darts back to the living room, chocolate in hand, and steps in front of the TV.

“Did you eat any of these?” he demands.

The boy’s face starts to crumple.

Jesse thinks of his nephew and changes strategies. “It’s okay!” he says, slowly lowering himself to the floor. “Hey, you know what? I’m going to give you a full tour of my ambulance. I’m even going to let you sit behind the wheel. Does that sound fun?”

The boy nods eagerly. “Yeah! Amboo-linse!”

“Good. But first, I need you to tell me the truth. You won’t be in trouble no matter what. Did you eat any of these?”

The little boy glances at the package with disinterest. “Can I have a cookie?”