Men marry because they are tired, women because they are curious: both are disappointed. (Oscar Wilde)

“I’d prefer to speak with the patient alone.”

Christian looked helplessly toward me.

“No, its fine,” I told the doctor. “I want him to stay.”

The doctor sighed. He listed off the vertebrate that had been broken and bruised as if I was a fourteen year old boy who had gotten injured during some rambunctious horseplay and I was at fault for my injuries. Then his voice changed from irritated to serious: “Your bloodwork showed a shocking amount of diacetylmorphine.”

“Dual-cell-morphine?” asked Christian.

“Heroin,” I whispered.

“You have enough diacetylmorphine in your system to kill a 200-pound man.”

“A regular Tuesday night at my father’s house,” I kidded. No one was amused.

“I would recommend immediate admittance to a rehabilitation facility,” he said.

I wanted to laugh but I instead painted on a serious expression to mirror them.

“Recommend?” I asked. “If I choose not to go, there’s nothing you can do though, right?”

“It’s been flagged and I can’t just pretend I didn’t see this. Without any reputable reason why you would have this much diacetylmorphine in your system I would have to alert the authorities – it’s my moral duty.”

“That’s BS,” I protested. “I can’t be arrested for this. That doesn’t even make sense. There’s no way that would hold up in court.” I looked to Christian. “There’s no way.”