“Yeah, he needed it.” Timmy shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“Timmy, please stop giving my stuff away,” I snap. “I needed that cream.”
I message Alice.
Me:
He gave my wound cream away.
Alice:
Jesus, y’all.
This is madness and wild.
THE NEXT EVENING
I wake up to an empty bed. The clock reads 317AM. Timmy is nowhere to be found.
Instinctively, I grab my phone and open Find My iPhone. There it is—he’s over at the meth tents. My stomach twists.
I call him over and over again—maybe twenty times—but he doesn’t pick up.
Me:
So I woke up, and he’s not here.
According to Find My iPhone, he’s on the beach at the meth tents at 3am.
Alice:
Doing what? Did he clarify?
Me:
No, he’s just missing. Like, up the street.
Alice:
Hasn’t come back? Didn’t answer communications?
It’s on then. Go find him.
I hesitate. The thought of wandering into the meth tents at this hour feels like signing my own death warrant.
Me:
I’ve called about 20 times because it’s unsafe.
I guess I can try, but it’s really not safe, although they did take down the full-on tweaker park a few months ago.
The memory of those days sends a chill down my spine—people screaming at each other, throwing bicycles, fist-fighting and openly dealing drugs in broad daylight. Things are quieter now, but only barely.
Alice:
Definitely don’t.
He might be with them.