A fucking meth lab. Of all the bullshit criminal enterprises my little sister has managed to get herself wrapped up in, in her relentless determination to win Darryl Schmidt’s approval, this one is—by far—the most deplorable.

I’ve seen the aftermath of meth labs, the kind that explode, often killing or maiming their owners. But I’ve got no experience with the working variety. It’s difficult to believe Kimmie would be mixed up in anything so serious.

“What were they doing?” I ask Gil. “Cooking the stuff in soda bottles or something? I’ve seen that on television. Were they using it themselves? Or what?”

“I don’t know,” Gil replies. “Right now, you know exactly what I know.”

It’s a quick trip to the trailer park. Last I saw Kimmie and the kids was a few months back. As far as I knew, they were living here by themselves. Darryl was about to get out of jail, and she told me he was moving in with them. I threatened to cut her off if she did.

I pay the rent on the trailer, cover the power bill, the water, and a six hundred bucks a month for groceries for her and the kids. She gets public assistance for the rest. I hoped that when Darryl got out he’d turn over a new leaf, get a job, and start taking care of his family. Instead, he just isolated Kimmie, putting even more space between her, me, and the rest of our family. Uncle Charlie can’t stand Darryl and told him if he ever came on his property again he’d shoot him. Darryl told me to fuck off and leave his kids alone, to stop interfering in their lives. Kimmie stopped cashing my checks, but I kept paying for the trailer and the utilities.

Now I wish I’d been more proactive, that I’d really seen what was happening. Maybe if I had, I could have done something to prevent this.

The trailer park is crawling with cops, blue lights flashing, and all the neighbors are outside of their mobile homes, watching the show. The Haz-Mat truck pulled in ahead of us. As we’re exiting Gil’s Suburban, I spot Carrie and another officer coming out of Kimmie’s trailer, dressed in paper suits, wearing masks and glasses.

“Jesus,” I mutter to myself. That’s when I see Darryl. He’s handcuffed, sitting on his ass on the ground between three police officers, hurling threats, spitting insults up at them. His hair is unwashed, wild, like it’s never been combed. His eyes, bloodshot, pupils fixed to pinpoints.

“I told her to close the fucking window,” he says to one of the policemen, talking so fast I can barely keep up. “The fucking bitch wants to leave the windows open. You can’t do that when you’re cooking. I told her, but the bitch never fucking listens to a goddamn word I say. She’s always opening windows. How do you fucking expect to cook in the privacy of your own goddamned house when the windows are open. I told her to close it.”

He’s rocking back and forth on his hips like a bowling pin about to topple—but he doesn’t. He just keeps talking fast. He’s high as a kite and oblivious to his situation.

“Where’s my sister?” I ask Gil.

He shakes his head. “Dunno. Hang on. Let me talk to Carrie. Wait here.”

Jack followed us. He parks his car a few vehicles back, well out of the way, then joins me on the gravel driveway.

“This is a mess,” he observes, making a massive understatement. He then nods to a group pf cops on the far end of the drive. “Is that your sister?”

I look, and sure enough, spot Kimmie. She’s also handcuffed, surrounded by four cops. She’s trying to wriggle out of the cuffs, struggling in a cop’s grip. She’s also talking, but at this distance I can’t hear what she’s saying.

“C’mon,” I say to Jack.

She hardly looks like herself. She’s rail thin, pale, her skin is pasty.

What happened to my beautiful little sister?

“You fuckers,” she spits at the cop who’s holding her above her elbow. “Get your fucking hands off me. I’ll fucking sue you. You got no fucking right. This place is paid for. I have a lease. I’ll fucking see you in court. You can’t just bust up in a house and start going through people’s shit like this. I know my rights. My father’s a judge. Did you know my father’s a judge and my brother is a Colonel in the Marine Corps. He flies F-16s. He flew over Abingdon last night. Did you hear that? That was him. He’s coming…”

She’s out of her mind. Our father was a goddamn moonshiner and pot grower who appeared before a lot of judges in his life. I’ve seen a few F-16s, but I’ve never been inside one.

Kimmie’s face is deranged. She tweaking so hard she’s not even making sense.

“Kimmie,” I say, approaching the cops, all of whom know me well enough.

She doesn’t respond, doesn’t see me. Not yet.

“I’m her brother,” I say to them. “I don’t fly F-16s though.”

Kimmie’s eyes land on mine. They’re wild.

“I fucking told you he’d come!” she shrieks, grinning wildly. “Dillon, tell these mother fuckers where they can get off. Tell them! They’re up in the trailer stealing our shit! I left the window open and then they just broke down the front door and came in…”

She’s completely lost it.

I turn my address to the cop I know best among the others. “Where are the kids?” I ask.

He nods, pointing me further down the lane.

I leave Kimmie to her fate. There’s not much I can do for her now.

My nephew Jordan stands with a cop, staring up at him with a sneer. I’m shocked at his appearance. He’s thin, pale, with a nasty red rash marring his arms and neck. His clothes are ill-fitting and filthy. Like his parents, he looks as if he hasn’t bathed in weeks.

“Either arrest me or let me go,” he says, his tone brittle-thin with stress. “I ain’t staying here if they take her away. I’m going to my uncle. Call him. His name is—”

“Dillon Manning,” I say, coming up behind my nephew. “They already called me. I’m here.”

Jordan swings around. His eyes go liquid as soon as he sees me. He runs at me, shoving his whole body into mine, then he inexplicably starts punching me.

“Fucker! You asshole!” he screams. “Where the fuck have you been? You fucking, fucker!”

I drop to my knees, wrapping my arms around him. He’s rail thin too, and raging against me with all the might his eleven-year-old body can muster.

I hug him tight while he fights me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here. You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay. I’m here now.”

In another moment his rage gives way to a flood of angry tears. He clings to me, sobbing.

I don’t know what’s happened in the three months since I last saw them, but clearly, I fucked up by thinking Kimmie could manage on her own.

“Jordan, where are Chrissy and Joey?” I ask him. “Where are your brother and sister?”

He nods to the patrol car a few yards away. I look up and see Chrissy peering at me through the glass of the rear window. Her eyes are wide, fixed on mine, her face a blank. Joey is beside her. Even from here I can see he’s crying.

“Let’s go get them,” I urge Jordan. “Let’s make sure they’re okay too.”

The cops let Chrissy and Joey out of the patrol car, and as quick as that I have a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old, hanging around my neck. The youngest crying, his face a wretched glaze of unchecked fear. Chrissy, by contrast, is silent, still, stoic, just hanging onto me with one arm, while gripping her younger brother tightly with her free hand.

“It’s their fucking fault!” Jordan spits, pointing at his brother and sister. “She kept opening the windows. You can’t open the windows while they’re cooking or else the neighbors smell it and call the cops. He told her a thousand times. Now we’re all fucked!”

I spend a few minutes trying to calm them all down, trying to reassure them they’re not in trouble, and none of this is their fault. It occurs to me, watching my niece and nephews, that something is very wrong with all of them. Jordan is almost as wired as his mother and father, and Chrissy is on silent guard, like a caged animal, hanging onto Joey like she’s his last line of defense against an invading army. Joey is so small, so frail, his hands trembling. All three of the kids have weird rashes on their skin. Jordan looks like he’s got a nasty case of pink-eye, and Chrissy—when she remembers to breathe—wheezes like an asthmatic.

“Hey guys,” I say, trying to make my tone upbeat like they’re used to me being. “This guy here is my friend Jack.” I meet Jack’s startled gaze. “He’s an EMT, which is sort of like a doctor. Is it okay if he has a look at you? Just to make sure you’re okay.”

Jordan glares up at Jack, then back at me. He says nothing. Neither do the other two.

A moment later Jack is on his knees in the grass, hands out, palms up, halfway smiling at Jordan. “I just want a look at that rash on your arm. How long have you had it?”

Jordan shrugs, but he doesn’t pull away as Jack very gingerly lifts his small hand, turning it, examining him.

“And the eye infection?” Jack asks. “Does it itch? Or does it burn?’

“Stings,” Jordan says, his voice very small, very unsure.

Jack checks the kids out, then thanking them, he rises, turning to me. “They need to go to the ER. They’ve probably got a pretty good dose of meth in their systems, and their clothes are contaminated. They need to bathe as soon as possible to get the chemicals off their skin, out of their hair. They’re dehydrated. I’d like to get them on a drip, just to get them up to baseline.”

Jack’s voice is cool and confident, pragmatic. When I look at him, my heart feels full to bursting, like a dam opening up inside of me. His face softens when he looks at the kids, his hazel eyes warm.

“Y’all are going to be just fine,” Jack says to the kids. “We’ll just need to get you all fixed up at the hospital.”

I’m all for that idea, however police procedure has different ideas.

Gil’s inside the trailer with the Haz-Mat team, but Carrie tells me we can’t take the kids away until Child Protective Services arrives and agrees.

“They’re on their way,” she informs me. “I just spoke to the person assigned as case manager. She said she’s fifteen minutes out.”

While we wait, Jack manages to round up some bottled water and snacks from the police on the scene. The kids scarf the stuff down like they’re starving—even Chrissy, who still hasn’t said a word. All three of them hang so close to me I feel like a mother cat with clingy kittens. I don’t mind, but it’s odd.

Kimmie wasn’t ever mother-of-the-year material, but the kids were reasonably well-adjusted and happy. As happy as kids can be when they’re poor, being raised by a single mom, and their father is in jail.

That’s it. It’s Darryl. He got out of jail. He’s either been in jail or hiding out since right after Jordan was born. He’s only ever lived with them for a few weeks at a time before getting into something else, violating his parole, or getting rearrested. But now, he’s been home three months.

And this is the result.

One day—and I hope it’s soon—I’m going to beat that motherfucker until he wails from the broken bones.

Jack and I park ourselves in the grass with the kids between us while we wait for Child Protective Services, doing our best to distract them from the commotion of police activity engulfing their home. Jordan remains sullen and short-tempered, swatting angrily at gnats, while Joey curls up on my lap, closes his eyes, sticks his thumb in his mouth, and (I think) relaxes into a nap. Chrissy sits cross-legged on the ground, directly between us, never taking her eyes off her little brother. Finally, without altering her gaze, she speaks for the first time.

“What are they going to do with Mama?”

I don’t know what to tell her. I’m certain she too traumatized for the truth just now.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“She needs a doctor,” Chrissy says, her little girl voice a flat monotone. “She’s sick.”

That’s an understatement.

“I know,” I say, reaching forward to lay my hand over hers. She stiffens with my touch, something she’s never done before. “But you three are okay now.”

“Mr. Manning?”

I look up. A pair of women, both conservatively dressed with over their shoulders and ID tags on lanyards around their necks, gaze down on our little party. They both wear stern, tired expressions.

“Yes ma’am,” I say, raising my hand. I don’t get up because I don’t want to disturb Joey.

They introduce themselves, they too settle down on the grass with us. I introduce Jack, who takes the first opportunity to tell both women that he’s an EMT, he’s checked out the kids, and thinks they need to go to the ER as soon as possible.

“I don’t disagree,” Mrs. Landry, the head caseworker replies, removing a file from her bag. “But first we need to establish some details.”

They take my name and address, photograph my driver’s license and social security card, then photograph me. She runs my details through an instant background check. While waiting for the results, she asks me if I have ever lived out of state.

I shake my head. “Only when I was in the Marine Corps. Four years based at Camp Lejune, but most of my time I was either in a combat zone or on a base somewhere in the Middle East. When I had leave, I came back here. I’ve been in Abingdon since leaving the military.”

She nods. “Any arrests while in North Carolina?”

“No ma’am,” I reply. “A few speeding tickets when I was there. That’s it.”

“No DUI’s?”

“No ma’am.”

“And you’re currently employed by the Abingdon Fire and Rescue?” she asks. “Is that full-time?”

I nod, “Yes ma’am.”

“What’s your relationship with the children? How much contact have you had with them?”

“He’s been gone for months!” Jordan shouts. “Ever since Darryl got back, he’s been gone. He just left us.”

Mrs. Landry turns to Jordan while I resist the urge to tell him to sit down and be quiet for his own good. She smiles sadly at him, nodding.

“I understand,” she says. “That’s a very scary feeling, when people you rely on aren’t there for you.” She returns her gaze, now somewhat sterner.

“Tell me about your relationship with the children,” she asks again.

I explain as best I can, telling her that I’ve always been a fixture in their life, trying to help financially and every other way, but all that came to an end when Darryl got out of prison and moved in.

“He cut Kimmie off from me, from our uncle and the rest of the family. He told me to stay out of their lives. She stopped cashing my grocery checks. I still paid for the trailer and power bill, but they wouldn’t let me see the kids.”

“I understand,” she says. “And did you know what she was involved in?”

I shake my head vehemently. “Absolutely not. Darryl was always in some kind of trouble. He was a stoner and a two-bit pot dealer, but aside from being a… a… not a very nice person, he was pretty harmless. I never imagined he’d do anything like this. I never imagined Kimmie would. I guess I was… naïve.”

Mrs. Landry’s eyebrows arch. “That might be true,” she says. “But it’s difficult to know what people will do.”

She lays her computer aside, looking me squarely in the eye. “Mr. Manning, I’m going to be honest with you—I’m not entirely comfortable placing these children with you. You’re a young, single man, without an appropriate support system. Much of your extended family—the people you would rely on for help—all have some kind of criminal history. I’m just not certain you’re prepared for what this means.”

“I’m prepared,” I tell her, feeling it in my bones as I stroke Joey’s back, my fingers absently threading his dirty hair. “And I’ll fight like hell in court to get them. I’m not letting you take these kids. They’re my blood, and they belong with family.”

“He’ll have help,” Jack says, stepping into the fray. “As much as I can. And my sister will help too. She owns a farm outside Abingdon. Great place for kids. Plenty of animals, fresh air, woods to play in.”

Mrs. Landry regards Jack with interest. “And your relationship is….?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” I say without hesitation, meeting Jack’s eyes. “My better half. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

Jack raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods slowly.

Gil walks up, followed by Carrie and his sister, Ginny. I have no clue what she’s doing here, but I’m happy to see her. She smiles at me, then winks, as if she knows a secret I have yet to learn.

Gil introduces himself to Mrs. Landry, shows his chief’s badge, then proceeds to tell her that he and I have been best friends since grade school, served in the Corps together, live on the same street, and that his sister and Carrie, the Assistant Chief of Police, have volunteered to help get the kids settled in and make sure everything is as it should be.

Mrs. Landry appears overwhelmed. She addresses Ginny first. “Ma’am, do you have children of your own?”

“Yes ma’am. My husband and I have two. An eight-year-old and a four-year-old. I’m also the town clerk. One of my duties is oversight of the city employee day care. The kids will certainly be welcome there if Dillon needs coverage while he’s at work.”

Carrie steps forward next. “I’ve got teenagers. My daughter, Gretchen, is fifteen. Old enough to babysit and always looking for new clients.”

Mrs. Landry smiles, heartened by the onslaught of support. She turns to her partner. “I think we’re outnumbered.”

“You are outnumbered,” Gil states confidently. “I’ll personally vouch for Dillon and Jack. I don’t have kids, but if I did, I’d trust them with him. I trust Dillon with my life.”

As soon as the paperwork is done and Landry and her partner leave, Chrissy relaxes just a little. She still clings to Joey, but begins to show some interest in Jack, staring at him inquisitively as we pile the kids into his car to take them to the ER.

I give Ginny my house keys, so she and Carrie can go and do some prep work to get the place ready, then give Gil a big hug before we leave.

“Thank you, brother,” I say, hugging him tightly. “Thanks for calling in the cavalry.”

“You’d do the same for me,” he says. “Now go get those kids taken care of.”

At the ER, there’s more of the same: waiting for what seems an endless battery of tests and evaluations. We’re there for hours as the kids are bathed, given hospital scrubs to wear, while their blood is drawn, hair samples clipped for toxin screenings, and they’re put on IV drips to remedy their dehydration.

Hours after we arrive, after all three kids prove their kidneys are functioning fine and they can clearly articulate their full names and birthdays, the ER attending appears with discharge papers. At this point, it’s almost five in the evening, and poor Jack is dead on his feet. He’s been ‘on’ for twenty-four hours straight without a break. The kids are hungry and restless.

“Let’s step outside and talk a minute,” the physician says, begging us into the corridor.

“The tox screen came back with surprisingly high levels of methamphetamine, considering they were only passively exposed. Unfortunately, it’s going to take some time for the chemicals to clear from their system.”

“How long?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Months. It’ll go faster in the older one, slower in the younger one. He’s got the highest levels in his system,” the doctor says. “He probably spent more time indoors, more time on the floor, coming in contact with the contamination.”

I choke back tears, and a silent, wretched sob works its way up from deep inside of me. “Good God,” I murmur. I might say it more than once, because it takes the place of the other, more damning words that are circling about inside my head.

I really hate my sister. I’m furious with her.

“I’m sending you home with prescriptions for the skin rashes and Jordan’s eye infection,” he says. “Chrissy’s asthma will probably clear up on its own now that she’s out of the environment. Her lungs are fine. She’s got some inflammation, but no sign of infection. I think it was the chemical the irritants in the air causing the problem. You don’t smoke, do you?”

Jack and I both shake our heads. Hell no.

“If the wheezing persists another week, take her to a pediatrician. I’d follow all of them up with a doctor’s visit in about a month. Repeat the tox screens then to see what their levels look like compared to today. And between now and then, make notes of behavior changes you see.”

He hands me a fistful of papers with lab results and instructions. I’m feeling overwhelmed already.

Jack takes the papers from my hands, folding them neatly in the side pocket of his BDU’s. “We’ll look these over later,” he says. “Let’s get the kids home now.”

I nod. Good idea.

Home. The kids. My kids.

Good God.

I keep repeating it, over and over in my head. Like a mantra.

Jack’s gaze rests on me as I pile the kids into the back of my jeep, vaguely remembering that I need booster seats for Joey and Chrissy. “The kids… they need boosters…”

“We’ll pick them up tomorrow,” Jack says. “Tomorrow,” he says again.

I nod.

My world has just exploded, and Jaxon Chance was here, watching it happen. If Jack were smart, he’d take off running. I’m a guy with clear commitment issues—and now, and entire ready made family.

Instead, in the car, he takes my hand and squeezes it once, and we start up the car and head down the road together.