It was just me out here, me and this man. I heard Lobo’s voice in my head, telling me not to be stupid, not to be a girl about this. Not to trust anyone.

“Lean on me,” I said.

We hobbled together to the truck. I helped him into the front seat and started the engine. I listened to it turn over, thought about what to say that wouldn’t give up too much. “My mama always wants me to carry a first-aid kit with me when I’m chopping wood, but I always forget,” I said.

“Me, too. Obviously.”

I looked over at him. “What’s your name?”

“Grayson. You’re Wil. Short for Wylodine, I remember.”

“You remember?” I studied him as he leaned back in the passenger seat, teeth gritted with pain as I began to drive. The truck bounced over the rutted path. “Did we go to school together?”

“I’m a year younger.”

“But you know me.”

“The name,” he said.

“Right. The name.”

“And...” I could tell he was debating whether or not to say it. “Your family.”

“Of course. My family.”

But some families grew or cooked worse: poppies, meth. Some traded in pills. Some drove back and forth to Chillicothe with balloons of heroin, bottles of painkillers. A lot of families got caught. Some were in jail, or died, or were killed. Lobo and Mama at least had been careful.

I looked at the man from the woods again. His back rested against the window, though rested was the wrong word. He sat rigid—and not just from pain. He was poised to jump if I did something (what?), ready to flinch, roll, or run. I wouldn’t have been surprised if his hand was on the door handle.

He would be disappointed to find out I had locked it.

My eyes flicked back to the road. I kept my voice cool. “Did you want to buy something? Is that why you were in my woods?”

“Buy something?”

“Weed?”

“No! I don’t do that.” He paused. “Do you?”

I could feel him looking at me, gray and intense.

“You must not remember me well,” I said.

The parking lot at the clinic was full. I dropped Grayson off at the emergency entrance and parked down by the river. When I returned to the clinic, I found Grayson slumped in the very last chair. I crouched down beside him.

He seemed surprised to see me. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Do you have folks coming?”

He made some kind of sound.

“I’ll stay. Nobody’s waiting at home for me, either.”

The waiting room overflowed. People sat in wheelchairs. A baby cried. Maybe more than one baby. There were several people with ice packs or bandages, several more coughing, but most just looked pale and miserable, red eyes and thin shoulders.