Medical Center.
Emergency Room.
"Dr. Duncan, there's a five-year-old with a heart issue in Exam Room 1," a nurse called out as soon as Adam walked in.
"Got it," Adam replied, heading over quick.
A little Black girl lay there, struggling to breathe.
"Coarctation of the aorta, sudden severe respiratory distress, respiratory rate 40, BP 180/100, tachycardia, mid-systolic murmur," Adam said, checking her over. "Give her 20 mg of furosemide."
"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said, swiftly administering the diuretic.
"What's her name?" Adam asked.
"Kalisha," the nurse answered.
"Hey, Kalisha, I'm Dr. Duncan," Adam said gently, leaning down to the dazed little girl. "Did you touch something you weren't supposed to, or eat anything you shouldn't have?"
Kalisha shook her head weakly.
"Her family here yet?" Adam asked, glancing up at the nurse.
"Her dad and sister are on their way," she replied.
"Doctor!" another nurse chimed in. "Her heart rate's shifting."
"Ventricular tachycardia," Adam said, frowning at the monitor. "20 mg lidocaine, IV push."
"Yes, Doctor," the nurse responded, jumping into action.
"Got her chart yet?" Adam asked.
"We're pulling it from the database," the nurse said.
"Doctor, she's running a fever," another nurse pointed out.
"Gastric lavage, stat—prep for irrigation," Adam ordered. "Then run a tox screen."
"She's poisoned?" the nurse asked, surprised.
"Yeah," Adam nodded. "Tell the lab to rush it—find out what she got into."
"Yes, Doctor," the nurse said, drawing Kalisha's blood with practiced ease and hustling it off to the lab for testing.
After the lavage, Kalisha's fever, irregular heart rate, high blood pressure, and anxiety—classic poisoning signs—started to ease up.
The lab, seeing Adam's name on the request, fast-tracked it. Soon, the tox report was in his hands.
"Damn it!" Adam muttered, scanning the results.
The nurse's face twisted with anger too. The report showed five-year-old Kalisha had overdosed on cocaine.
Cocaine! A hardcore drug—and she's only five!
"Dr. Duncan, should we call Child and Family Services?" the nurse asked.
"Yeah," Adam nodded.
In the U.S., anything harming a kid—intentional or not—triggers a Child Protective Services investigation. Hospitals and doctors are legally bound to report it.
"Dr. Duncan, Kalisha's family's here," a nurse updated him.
"Let 'em wait," Adam said, focusing on treating Kalisha.
Now that they knew the cause, it was all about the right meds—no urgent need to grill the family on her history yet.
Child and Family Services showed up fast—a middle-aged Black woman.
"Ms. McGillis, here's the situation," Adam said, briefing her on Kalisha's condition. "Family's in the waiting area."
"Let's go see them," Ms. McGillis said, her face grim.
"Alright," Adam agreed, leading her over.
A sturdy middle-aged Black man sat there, anxious, with a teenage Black girl leaning on his shoulder, earbuds in, eyes closed.
"Mr. Freeman," a nurse called out.
"How's my daughter?" Mr. Freeman asked, easing the teen onto the chair and standing up, voice tight with worry.
"She's okay," Adam said, giving him a nod.
"Thank God," Mr. Freeman said, raising his hands in praise before stepping forward to shake Adam's hand. "Thank you, Doctor! Can I see her now?"
"Hang on," Adam said. "This is Ms. McGillis from Child and Family Services. She's got some questions."
"Your legal name and address?" Ms. McGillis asked, stone-faced.
"What?" Mr. Freeman's smile froze. He glanced at Adam, then at Ms. McGillis, who'd settled into a serious interrogator vibe. "What's going on?"
He wasn't dumb. This wasn't a good sign.
"Please provide your legal name and address," Ms. McGillis repeated, her tone shifting from request to demand.
"Where's Kalisha? I want to see her—now!" Mr. Freeman snapped, irritated.
"Your five-year-old daughter overdosed on cocaine," Adam cut in.
Mr. Freeman froze, then turned away, bracing his hands on the counter, head shaking in disbelief.
He got it now.
"Tim Morgan Freeman, address…" After a long pause, he steadied himself, turned back, and gave Ms. McGillis his info.
"It wasn't me—I don't know where Kalisha got cocaine," he said.
"Okay," Ms. McGillis said, closing her notepad. "Child and Family Services will follow up with a home visit…"
"That's it?" a nurse blurted, incredulous. "He endangered a child!"
"Mr. Freeman's middle-class, employed, owns a home," Ms. McGillis explained. "I've got families living in cars on my list. I trust Mr. Freeman, and we'll keep tabs on this."
Adam nodded. He got it. This kind of thing was way too common in the States. Without fixing the root problem, a handful of overworked agency staff couldn't keep up.
Back when Adam first crossed over, they'd even pulled that jaw-dropping move—legalizing it outright, decriminalizing it. The logic? If you can't control it, let it loose. Government takes over, regulates the market—saves billions in drug busts and rakes in the massive profits dealers used to pocket.
Win-win, right? Tons of cash either way. And the guy who dreamed that up? True little genius.
Most Americans loved it. Drug users? Thrilled—no more hiding. Cops? No more shootouts with dealers or junkies. Taxpayers? Happy their money wasn't flushing down a hopeless drain. "I don't use, so who cares if others OD?"
Emmm. Everyone's happy.
Except in a world like that, kids like Kalisha—zero self-control, curious about everything—get way too close to drugs. Accidental ingestion or "trying it with friends" odds skyrocket.
It's like Adam's childhood—sneaking cigs with his buddies, mimicking the grown-ups. A few coughs, and he ditched it, never smoked again. But his pals? They loved the "adult treat"—most grew up hooked.
Cigarettes are one thing. Drugs, with addiction a million times worse? Good luck.
Those middle-and-upper-class folks who think, "I don't use, my taxes are safe," might wake up screaming when they realize they can't shield their own kids. That legendary nation, supposedly dead from drugs, might just pull a sneaky comeback—East meets West, rising from the ashes.
Life's wild like that.