I arrived at an apartment building, ascending to the 20th floor. (I don’t have to use the stairs, in case you’re wondering. But sometimes I do.) A young woman was wailing in the hallway, and a policeman was having little success in either comforting or restraining her.
Inside was Andre Samuel Walker, age 23. Andre has been tempting me for years by indulging in and trafficking narcotics. Despite overdosing, he wasn’t dead. Emergency technicians filled the room, though none of them could see me. Some may have noticed a slight drop in temperature.
Andre saw me, though. I could tell by his eyes.
I knelt beside him, and he convulsed. “Easy,” I assured him. “Call me Jeff.”
I extended my arm, hovering my hand over his abdomen. There was a large amount of cocaine about to rupture his heart, but enough time to catch it. I searched his eyes for a reason. Even in death it’s sometimes there, and just a flicker can be enough for me to let someone have another go.
Andre’s eyes, however, were empty. Too bad.