Officer Ryan Donald is half an hour out from the end of his shift when the call comes in over the radio: Eleanor Brooks hasn’t seen her son since he left for school this morning. She’s freaking out after last time, kid’s last known location was leaving school with his friends, and said other friends have made it home; Officer Chaska has already been dispatched to the west side of town to follow up with the friends and family and do a brief patrol; Donald is left with the east.
Despite what happened last time Isaac went missing—when he stole his dad’s car, crashed it in the woods, and came stumbling back an hour after the freak earthquake half-frozen and beat to hell—Donald’s pretty sure the kid’s fine. After all, it was only a couple days after the earthquake that Donald gave him a warning for loitering outside the Abrahams’ house; the punk’s still gonna punk, even with his dad gone. But Ryan Donald is a good, reliable cop, and Eleanor Brooks deserves some peace of mind after the last few months she’s had, so he responds to the dispatch without complaint and starts driving. After twenty minutes, he pulls over long enough to tell his wife he’ll be late for dinner. Jennifer is less than impressed, based on the way her sigh crackles through the receiver.
An hour after what should have been the end of his shift, Officer Donald finds the kid sitting at the side of the road, about a half-mile out of town. He startles when Donald gives the siren a brief whoop, but doesn’t go running into the woods, which is the only reason he doesn’t haul off on the kid when he parks the car and steps out.
Isaac clambers to his feet as Donald walks around the front of his car, hastily stuffing something in his pocket. Donald would bet his handgun it’s cigarettes, but frankly, he doesn’t care if the kid stole them, let alone lit one up. He leans against the hood of his car, crosses his arms, and returns Isaac’s tense stare with his own tired one.
“Your mom’s worried,” he finally says when it’s clear Isaac won’t initiate a conversation. Normally the kid’s pretty chatty, trying to explain his way out of his own dumb choices, but tonight the only language he’s using is body. His shoulders hike practically up to his ears as Donald speaks. “Got half the town looking for you. Is it really that hard to just tell someone where you’re going, kid?”
“Wasn’t exactly planning this,” Isaac mumbles. He’s looking straight down at his own shoes. It’s still light enough that Donald can see his hand fiddling with the box of probably-cigarettes in his pocket.
“Of course you weren’t,” he sighs, bringing up a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Just get in the car. I’ll drive you home.”
Isaac hesitates, shooting a look at him that he can’t figure out and doesn’t really care to. He just needs to get Isaac home so he can file the goddamn report and figure out a way to make this up to Jennifer, and that all starts with the kid getting in the goddamn car. He unlocks the back right seat, raising an eyebrow until the kid hunches over and climbs in. With one last look to make sure they’re not leaving anything behind, Donald gets back in the driver’s side, radios that he’s got the kid in tow, and starts back towards town.
The car is stiflingly quiet. If he looks in the rear-view mirror, he can see Isaac is slumped down, practically curled in on himself, but still watching Donald in quick, fearful glances. Donald lets out a sigh after their eyes meet on one such occasion; he may have no faith in the punk and neither did Jimmy Brooks, but that doesn’t change that he’s a kid who just lost a parent. “Look, Isaac,” he starts, “you’re not in trouble this time, but you’ve got to stop worrying your mom like this. She’s a good woman going through the same things as you—you need to be there for her right now, same as she is for you.” Isaac snorts. Donald pretends he didn’t hear it. “I don’t care about what you were doing or those cigarettes you were thinking about smoking. Just let someone know where you are and when you’re coming back.”
“It’s not cigarettes,” Isaac mutters with none of his usual conviction. Donald doesn’t even pretend to believe him. “And I’m sixt—I’m almost seventeen. I don’t have to tell people if I want to, to take a walk.”
“It matters if you don’t want this to keep happening,” Donald snaps. He catches movement in the mirror: Isaac flinching, staring at him with wide eyes. “We’ve been cutting you a lot of slack since your dad died, but that won’t last forever. If you want to keep disappointing him, fine, that’s your choice—“
“That’s not what—“
“Shut up. Your father gave you every chance he could, and your mother is trying to do the same. This whole town has given you chance after chance, and you keep throwing it away, but you have to recognize that those chances are not infinite.”
“Pull over.” Isaac sits up straight, looking around frantically. “Officer Donald—“
“Like hell I will! Listen to me. If you ever want to get off this path you’re on—“
Isaac starts fumbling at the car door, tugging desperately at a lock that refuses to budge. “Please, I’m—oh, fuck—“
Officer Donald has had a lot of people in varying states of wellness in the back of this particular vehicle. When he looks in the rear-view mirror a third time, he immediately recognizes the look of someone about to puke, and slams on the brake to pull over. Isaac flinches as the car thunks to an ungraceful halt against the curb, curled over on himself and breathing so fast and shallow Donald’s honestly not sure how he’s getting oxygen at all. He practically throws himself out of the driver seat to rush over to Isaac’s door. Less than a second after it’s open, Isaac leans out the gap and starts hurling onto the shoulder.
It’s not quick. It’s less like the usual drunks Donald gets, or even the sick people whose fevers tell them wandering around the park is a great idea, and more like some kind of attack. Isaac heaves, dribbles bile onto the pavement, and has just enough time to suck in a desperate breath before the next wave hits. He’s clutching on to the door frame with one hand like it’s the only thing stopping him from just falling out of the car entirely. The other is ineffectually holding the loose strands of his hair out of the line of fire.
When it hits about a minute of this, Donald reaches into the passenger seat and grabs his water bottle, as well as a pack of hand wipes from the glove compartment. Isaac finally seems to be calming down, getting in two or three breaths before the next hit, and he stopped actually expelling anything about halfway through.
Finally, Isaac seems finished. Nearly his entire upper body is sagging out the open door, held up just by his grip on the door frame, and he’s panting heavily. Probably exhausted—definitely exhausted. Officer Donald looks at the sad pile of spit and nothing more on the shoulder of the road and wonders when the hell the kid last ate.
“Here.” He nudges the water bottle against Isaac’s free hand. “Swish and spit. Don’t drink any just yet.”
Even before he’s finished speaking, Isaac’s taken the water bottle and doing just that. He goes a few times before handing the water bottle back and hauling himself more or less upright, and Donald hands over the little pack of towelettes. Isaac frowns at them for a moment, then rips one out and starts scrubbing at his mouth. When he’s done, he drops it on top of the vomit pile and tilts his head back, still panting.
Officer Donald chooses to not comment on the littering. “Were you drinking?” he asks instead.
“No.” Isaac’s breath whistles as he speaks. His eyes are closed, arms limp at his side like he’s given up. “Hate alcohol. S’bad.”
He doesn’t sound even vaguely facetious. “Smoking something else?” Donald tries. “Not just cigarettes, but maybe something more intense?”
“I don’t… I don’t do drugs, Officer,” Isaac complains. “M’fine. I just—it just happens, sometimes.”
“It just happens?” Donald feels his eyebrows fly upwards. He didn’t have a watch handy, but that was easily a couple minutes straight of vomiting. “How long has it been ‘just happening?’”
“Not like you care.” Isaac cracks an eye open to glare at him. “None of your business, either.”
“Does your mom at least know?”
“Yeah.” Isaac wraps his arms around his stomach, and Donald finds that he once again doesn’t believe him. “Look, can you just… I just wanna go home.”
Donald opens his mouth to protest—why, exactly, he doesn’t know—and then closes it. The kid has to end up home anyways; Eleanor can take him to a doctor in the morning. He ends up handing back his water bottle with orders to only take small sips, closes the back door again, and takes the rest of the drive to the Brooks house slow and steady. When he pulls up, Eleanor Brooks is already waiting on the sidewalk, anxious for her son’s return.
Donald accepts her effusive thanks distractedly and watches as Isaac drags himself out of the car, gives his mom a lethargic hug, and finally disappears inside the house. Then he gives Eleanor a brief rundown of the situation, promises to answer any questions she has in the morning, and advises she take him in to see one of the Fleetwoods soon.
And finally, he puts everything out of his mind in favor of speeding back to the station so he can get home before Jennifer goes to bed without him.
