Page 136 of Raven

“Sonny, baby, stay with me,” I say to him as Guff runs, carrying him, to the golf cart parked outside Ty’s house.

Thank God for the small island because the medical center is only a two-minute drive from here.

We rush inside, Guff carrying Little, who still looks like he drank a bottle of booze.

Dr. Hodges is already out in the hall.

“It’s been an hour since he’s taken sleeping pills,” I say as we trot to one of the empty patient rooms the doctor is directing us to. “So, probably no use pumping the stomach. But he needs the antidote.”

“We got it.”

“He didn’t take many,” I say as Guff lays Little down on the bed, “but his vitals are slowing down?—”

“We got it, Maddy,” Dr. Hodges says, already a syringe in his hand.

“But he might?—”

I keep talking, already prepping the IV as Little gets an antidote injection.

“Give him a moment,” the doctor says, “and he should be alright to talk. If not, we have a problem.”

A minute later, Little finally manages to stay awake. He rubs and rubs and rubs his eyes with his fists.

The doctor takes a chair and sits by the bed, then checks his pulse. “Sonny, how are you feeling?”

“Sleeeepy,” he says.

“It’s all right. What did you take? What pills, tablets, anything else?”

He notices me standing behind the doctor and lowers his eyes. Oh, I know that look well.

“It’s all right,” I say. “You have to tell us so we know what to do next.”

“Those pills Ray-Ray had. She say’ she goes sleep for long.”

“You took those?’

He nods.

“How many?”

“Three.”

Oh, God. That could’ve been the cause of heart failure in a child.

I take my phone and call Raven. He doesn’t pick up. So I text.

Me: Sonny is at the medical center. Pills overdose.

Dr. Hodges tells me in a stern voice to step aside as he and the nurses ask more questions meanwhile holding Little’s hand to insert the IV needle.

My heart squeezes unbearably hard at the sight—his brows scrunched up, him biting his lip when the needle goes in. The doctor continues talking to him in a soft voice.

He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

I hope there’s no allergic reaction.

The thing that bothers me the most is that Little is still, so very still, his dirty little feet in contrast with the blue hospital bed, and I can’t bear the fact that he is not talking a mile a second or laughing or asking questions but instead answers in quiet short words.

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