Page 3 of Clear Path

“Sure, but that doesn’t explain whyyouhave these. Your patients are beyond saving.”

“I think everyone should carry naloxone.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone. You know they have it on college campuses now? They train the students how to administer it.”

Bodhi paused, considering this. “No, I didn’t realize.”

“Shopkeepers on the West Coast keep it behind the counter in case someone collapses on the street in front of their business or in their bathroom. As far as I’m concerned it’s basic safety preparedness—like having a defibrillator or a fire extinguisher.”

He had a point, Bodhi thought.

“I will take some, thank you.” He removed a handful of the spray vials from the compartment, slipped them into the kit in his backpack, and closed the minivan door.

He crossed the parking lot, noting the large boulders—hostile architecture—at the trailhead where the encampment had once stood. He took a deep breath and exhaled before his hiking boots landed on the path with a gentle, almost reverent, motion. ThenBodhi King took his first step on the one-hundred-and-fifty-mile trek from Pittsburgh to Cumberland, Maryland.

Six miles outside of Pittsburgh, he encountered what Saul had warned of. Three makeshift shelters nestled in a copse of trees just off the trail. The occupants eyed him warily at first, but his calm demeanor and open hands eventually earned him tentative smiles.

Finally, a woman with sunbaked skin and a threadbare coat emerged from the smallest tent, an orange cat perched on her shoulder like a parrot. The cat studied Bodhi with feline indifference, but the woman’s gaze held a mix of wariness and pride.

“You have quite a companion,” Bodhi observed, his voice soft.

“This is George,” she’d replied, stroking the cat’s head. “He takes care of the mice, and I take care of him.”

George purred in loud agreement.

As she ran her hand over her pet’s head and cheeks, the sleeve of her oversized coat slid up and Bodhi noticed the angry red line running along her forearm—clearly infected. Without comment, he kneeled and opened his pack, retrieving his first-aid kit. She allowed him to clean and dress the wound. Aside from one loud gasp, she remained silent during the process.

After he packed up his kit, he offered her a bottle of water and a handful of protein bars, along with enough cash to buy some food for herself and George.

Her eyes conveyed gratitude, and she said simply, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He gestured toward the other two tents up on the hill. Their occupants hung back in the trees, watching closely. “Do your friends need any medical attention?”

She shook her head.

He removed the rest of his dried foods and snacks from his pack and placed them in front of her along with some more cash. “For your companions.”

She turned and waved for them to come down. The other two women shook their heads, still unsure.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “You can give it to them.”

“I’m Gracie,” she said suddenly.

He sensed she didn’t share her name often or easily. “I’m Bodhi. Have a peaceful day, Gracie. And George.”

As he headed back to the trail, Gracie called up to her friends and they began to make their way down the hillside. Bodhi walked on.

3

Union Hill

The screen door squeaked open, and Lydia stepped out onto the porch. Her eyes were red and puffy, as was her nose. But her shoulders were squared and her back was straight.

Rory waited in silence while Lydia locked the door. There was no reason to, of course. The home would be a pile of rubble within the hour. But maybe it was a habit, muscle memory. Or, Rory allowed, maybe the woman simply wanted to experience the ritual of securing her home one last time.

Lydia turned away from the door just as the hard-hatted crew arrived in several mud-splattered pickup trucks, followed by a bright yellow excavator that slowly ground to a stop in the front yard. She stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Rory. She radiated anger like heat.

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