The woman directed them to a room at the end of the hallway. Stephen went to the door while Audrey stayed with her.

“I’m sorry, why are you here?” the American asked.

“The officers who came to investigate the noise complaint thought they smelled cannabis in your apartment,” said Audrey. “They referred the case to us.”

“And what department are you from?”

“Narcotics.”

Before the American woman could inquire further, Stephen emerged from the back room with her teenage son in handcuffs.

“Wait! What are you doing!”

Stephen lifted a small bag of marijuana and a glass pipe. “This was in his room.”

Audrey took no pleasure in the matter, but her hands were as bound as the boy’s. “We need to take him down to the station.”

“You’re taking him to jail ?”

“He will have the opportunity to enter a rehabilitation program.”

“Are you kidding me! He’s going to get kicked out of school if this goes on his record!”

“We enforce the law,” Stephen interjected, “and the letter of the law is not open to debate.” He seemed to be enjoying this a lot more than Audrey, probably because of the woman’s condescending attitude.

The woman followed as they marched her son outside. “I want both your badge numbers! I’m friends with the ambassador!”

Audrey maintained her composure. “We don’t have badge numbers here. My name is Inspector Audrey Lam from the Narcotics Bureau. Here’s my card.”

The mother’s tone shifted to desperation as Stephen put her son in the back of the inspectors’ Camry and locked him inside.

“Come on!” she pleaded with Audrey. “All kids his age mess around a bit! You can’t ruin his life over this!”

Audrey got in the car, taking one last look at the mother, empathizing with her pain before shutting the door.

The inspectors returned to police headquarters, where the young man was booked. Audrey spent the remainder of the shift summiting the mountain of paperwork on her desk before heading off to see her own son.

The past three months had been one long, never-ending day that oscillated between work and the hospital, with the occasional pit stop at her apartment for a change of clothes and a shower. It was a futile zero-sum game in which both lives demanded more than the twelve hours she had to offer. What kind of mother saw her sick child only a few hours of the waking day? What kind of narcotics detective didn’t work nights?

Audrey entered the hospital room to find her twelve-year-old son, Joshua, watching an old Jackie Chan movie on television—old by the boy’s standards, anyway.

“Turn it off,” she told her son firmly. “You’re too young to watch fighting movies.” Soon, Joshua would get better, and she mustn’t spoil the child during his convalescence.

Joshua propped himself up in bed, pointing excitedly at the TV. “But look, Mom! He’s a detective, just like you.”

On-screen, the hero cop vaulted over a car and kicked a criminal in the head.