Because possible drug manufacturing involved hazardous materials, fire rescue and medical response were being dispatched as well.
That was why, the next day, three ambulances arrived on my street.
I drove back behind them, though I barely remember the drive. My palms stayed damp on the wheel the whole time. I kept seeing Noah sleeping while strangers moved around his room. Kept hearing his quiet voice: Daddy says not to tell you because it’s a surprise.
By the time I turned onto our block, the neighborhood was lit up like a movie set.
Patrol cars lined the curb. Red and blue lights flashed across manicured lawns and stucco walls. A hazmat unit was parked in front of Mrs. Alvarez’s roses. Fire personnel in protective gear moved between the driveway and the front door. Neighbors clustered in bathrobes and jackets despite the late hour, whispering and staring with the hungry shock of people witnessing someone else’s ruin.
I pulled over and got out before I had fully parked.
An officer intercepted me halfway up the walk. “Ma’am, you need to stay back.”
“I’m Sarah Mitchell,” I said. “I made the call. My son is inside.”
His face changed immediately. “One second.”
He spoke into his radio, then motioned for another officer to guide me toward the side of the driveway, away from the front steps.
That was when I saw Eric.
