Page 66 of Switch!

“Sure, but only after you answer my question. Did you eat any of these?”

The little boy stares at the package until it clicks. Then his face lights up. “Chocolate!”

“Wrong,” Jesse says, pocketing the edibles. “It looks like chocolate, but it’s actually cat poop. Gross, right? Did you eat any of this cat poop?”

The little boy sticks out his tongue. “No way. Show me the amboo-linse! And a cookie!”

“Just a second. I’ll be right back.”

Jesse returns to the bedroom. Stan is kneeling on the mattress now while repeatedly lunging at the man.

“I’m just trying to take your vitals, you idiot! Hold still!”

Jesse waits by the door and clears his throat. “Uh, Stan. You might want to look at this.” He pulls out the chocolates and holds them up.

Stan stares. Then he rolls his eyes. “Oh for Christ’s sake. Another one?” He looks back at the cowering man. “All right. How many did you eat?”

“Just one!” the man blurts out.

“And?” Stan demands.

“And it didn’t work, so I had another one, and when I didn’t feel it either—”

“You ate the whole damn package,” Stan says.

“Most of it,” Jesse chimes in. “Do you feel anything now, sir? Are you high yet?”

The man’s eyes become unfocused. “I think so.”

“All right then,” Stan says with a heavy sigh. “We’re going to take you for a little ride so a doctor can help you calm down.”

“Am I overdosing?” the man splutters.

“Yes,” Stan says, shooting me a wink. “But don’t worry, we got here just in time. If you come with us, you should be okay.”

The man whimpers and scoots off the bed.

“Put some socks on,” Stan says. “And some shoes. We’ll give you something to help you feel better as soon as we’re on the rig.”

“In the ambulance,” Jesse translates. He waits until Stan comes nearer before whispering, “Can’t we just give him a sedative and go?” I’m surprised by his lack of concern until I tap into his knowledge.

Overdosing on edibles or any form of cannabis isn’t possible. Not fatally. The worst that can happen is vomiting or passing out. Anxiety attacks can be rough on the body, but they aren’t deadly outside of extreme circumstances. So why bring him in at all?

“We can’t leave the kid here,” Stan whispers. “Not with this clown watching over him.” His eyebrows shoot up in concern. “Hey, do you think—”

“He didn’t eat any,” Jesse says quickly. “I asked. But we do owe him a cookie.”

“You settle our debt,” Stan says. “I’ll get his idiot father packaged up. We’ll have to file a police report. Child Protective Services will want to hear about this.” From over his shoulder, he says, “You gotta wife?”

“She’s in Florida at her sister’s place,” the man says. He already has a sock on his right foot and is struggling to pull another one over it.

“I don’t blame her,” Stan says. He turns back to me and gestures down the hall with his head. “Try to make this fun for him, okay?”

“No problem.” Jesse goes into full-on uncle mode. A cookie from the kitchen, a piggyback ride out to the ambulance, and best of all, permission to turn on the sirens during the ride to the hospital. When we make it there, the boy gets to ride on his father’s lap as his wheelchair is pushed inside to the emergency room. Jesse sticks around long enough to make sure that one of his favorite nurses will look after the kid. Then he returns to the ambulance, smiling as he does the paperwork he normally dreads.

This was a good experience for him. While it sucks to see bad parenting, no lasting damage was done. The boy isn’t likely to be taken away, and the authorities will make sure nothing similar happens again. No lives were at immediate risk, but he still managed to help someone today. Including himself. Each call like this is a stitch, sewing up the wound caused by Caleb’s death and making Jesse feel whole again.

If only I could say the same. My problems are a little more complicated, considering that I don’t have a body of my own, but I have high hopes for the psychic fair. If that doesn’t pan out, maybe I should bum a ride with the little boy for a few months, because he sure knows how to have a good time.