It’s the early evening. I’ve just finished pouring the honey when I see a firetruck and ambulance pull up blocking the middle of the street. The first responders are going into the unit across from us, goat man’s place. A few minutes later they emerge with goat man on the stretcher, writhing around, appearing to be in mid overdose.
As the paramedics are fixing to leave I see the young teen boy that lives there and his toddler brother come out from the car they had been hiding in to go inside. Not just that but the women who lost her husband to an overdose in the unit behind us pulls up with her son right as this is all happening.
I debate briefly with my husband if I should go see if they’re alone but he thinks the paramedics surely wouldn’t have left the boys there by themselves and that their mom probably asked them to sit outside during the commotion.
I text the women on either side of my unit who are looking at the same thing I am. One of them mentions that it’s the second time in a few weeks, that the paramedics were also there around New years eve.
So fuckin depressing. My heart goes out to those boys. I spend the rest of the night reflecting on my 10+ years of opiode sobriety.