The phone rang. It was July 2014, and I was in a motel room in Tucumcari, New Mexico, about to step into the shower. My wife and I were two days into a cross-country drive from our home in California, and I wanted to clean up before we went to a sports bar across the parking lot to grab something to eat.
Looking at the phone, I recognized the number and felt my heart drop. The woman was a close friend. Her twenty-three-year-old son had struggled with heroin addiction for several years.
I knew the young man. He was smart, talented, funny—and charming when he wasn't high or jonesing. He was supposed to have called me that day to discuss getting back into school.
I didn't get that call.
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