The Social Worker

Emily's vision was blurry. It took a minute ... but this wasn't where she fell asleep. This wasn't a mattress in a **** den. This was a bed with a blanket. She got out of bed, groggily. She was wearing a shirt with a rainbow on it several times larger than her gangly frame. What the hell had happened?

She went into the kitchen. There was a stocky Black woman in her mid-30s in there, finishing off a round of bacon in the pan. She looked surprised to see Emily.

"I didn't realize you'd wake up today," she said.

"What happened?" Emily said.

"Found your ass in the streets, naked. It was freezing, so I brought you in. You've been out a couple of days. My sister is a nurse, so she came in and helped get you stabilized. I'm Deondra."

"Emily," the white girl whispered, her voice cracking.

"You need some juice. Here," Deondra said, handing her a glass of orange juice. Emily greedily drank down a glass, and then another.

"Hungry?" Deondra asked.

"Yeah," Emily said, mowing down the proffered bacon, and then polishing off a pancake. Deondra, who went by Dee, watched her, concerned.

"Listen ... I saw all the needle marks. You're going to be going into withdrawal sooner rather than later. I'm a social worker, so I've seen this shit. I don't mind you staying ... for now ... but you got to clean your ass up."

Emily looked torn. Her addictions were so strong ... but this might be the last lifeline she'd ever get.

"Yeah, I need to."