I pulled out my phone and called my club president, Tank. “Brother, I need you and Doc at the Chevron on Highway 50. Now. Kids in danger. Possible OD situation.”
Then I called 911.
“Emily, I need to see Jamie.”
She led me to the van. The smell hit me first. Human waste. Spoiled food. Desperation.
In the back, on dirty blankets, was a baby maybe six months old. Crying weakly. Too weak.
In the front seats were two adults. Unconscious. Barely breathing. Needles on the dashboard. The man’s lips were blue.
I checked for pulses. Weak but there.
Then I carefully lifted Jamie out. His diaper sagging and filthy. His tiny body too light.
“Emily, when did your parents last act normal?”
“They’re not my parents,” she said quietly. “They’re my aunt and her boyfriend. Mom died last year. Cancer. Aunt Lisa said she’d take care of us but then she met Rick and they started using the medicine that makes them sleep.”
