“It’s all right, Myra,” Chip says.

“No, it isn’t!”

“Now, now, now.” DeWitt goes over to his hall closet, where he pulls down a large cardboard box. “This just something between us boys. ’Less you want some, too.”

“No, I do not.”

“Not like you never seen me under the influence before.”

“I’m well aware of that, DeWitt.”

“Aw, put your feathers down. I ain’t gonna hurt your little friend, here. I know more than most doctors do ’bout drugs, that’s the God’s honest truth. I’ll just help him relax. Give him just a little something to make him feel good. He got a right to feel good! Give me a little something too, then we both feel good. And then we gon’ find him a new name.”

“All right,” I say. “That’s it. We’re leaving.”

“I wouldn’t mind a new name,” Chip says.

I stand, pick up my bag. “Come on, let’s go.”

I head for the door. No one follows me. I stand in the hall, call Chip’s name, hear nothing but the low sound of the men’s voices. I wait for what seems like hours but probably is less than five minutes. Then I come back to the living room.

“I am responsible for you, Chip,” I say quietly.

He smiles. “Oh, Myra. No, you’re not.” He tosses something in his mouth, swallows it.

“What was that?” I ask DeWitt. “What did he just take?”

“Two and a half milligrams of Valium.”

“That’s all?”

“That make you a little less nervous yourself? That make you relax?”

I say nothing.

“That’s all he took.”

Chip leans his head against the back of the chair, his eyes closed.

I could kill DeWitt.

Chip sits up suddenly, opens his eyes wide. “We’re ordering out for Chinese. Shrimp with lobster sauce. You want some?”

• • •

There’s no way I’m taking Chip home. All I need is for his parents to see him like this: lids at half mast, a foolish grin on his face, his balance equivalent to that of a baby who’s just begun walking.

“I’m taking you to my house,” I tell Chip. “Until you … For a while. What did you really take?”

“Valium. Val-e-yum.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Awwww. Don’t you trust DeWitt?”

I shift, say nothing.

“You should trust him,” Chip says. “He’s a honest man.”

“He’s a drug dealer!”

“Yes. As I said. He’s honest. People need drugs; he just acknowledges that simple truth. It’s hard here. People need drugs.”

“People need a spiritual bank account,” I say. “Not drugs.”

“Oh, come on, Myra. Haven’t you ever taken rec drugs?”

I say nothing.

“Never?”

“I did, once.”

“What did you take? Pepto-Bismol?”

“No. For your information, I took acid.” “Whoa! Really?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”