In the afternoon, Nic calls. He tells me everything—he has relapsed, is using meth and heroin. I have rehearsed my response. I shakily tell him that there’s nothing I can do. It’s up to him. I say that the police are searching for him, that his mother reported him missing to the Santa Monica police, and that the Marin sheriffs are patrolling our home and the home of our friends where he broke in. I say, “Do you want to wind up in jail? That’s where you’re headed.” “God,” Nic says. “Please help me. What do I do?” “All I know to tell you to do is what you already know. What do they tell you in
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