Page 38 of California Wild

Finally, Jesse spoke. “I was the one who called 911.”

Kwilé didn’t pause, but Jesse knew he was listening.

“When I was nine,” Jesse continued. “If I hadn’t, my mom would’ve died.”

Kwilé stopped chewing. His eyes flicked toward Jesse, sharp despite the drug haze.

Jesse didn’t elaborate.

Didn’t explain why he had to call.

Didn’t tell Kwilé about the blood, the screaming, the way he had to press his small hands over his mother’s wounds to keep her from bleeding out while waiting for the ambulance.

Didn’t tell him how his father had yelled at him to go back to bed.

How that was the first time he got a black eye… and much, much worse.

How he’d made a choice… to save her.

Because that wasn’t the point.

The point was—he had done it.

And that moment?

That had been the first time Jesse learned that when the worst happened, it was him or no one.

Kwilé swallowed, nodding slowly. “Shit.”

Jesse exhaled, glancing sideways at him. “Yeah.”

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then Kwilé took another bite, speaking around it. “Bet that’s why you do what you do.”

Jesse tipped his head back against the wall. “Probably.”

Another beat.

Then Kwilé smirked, picking at his food. “Still a cocky little shit though, aren’t you?”

Jesse barked out a laugh. “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

Kwilé shook his head, grinning, but his fingers were still too twitchy, his leg bouncing slightly, the signs of a high that hadn’t fully settled.

Jesse knew how it felt.

Knew the edge of it.

Knew the false euphoria before the come-down crushed you.

Knew it, but wasn’t in it anymore.

And maybe, if he kept showing up, kept sitting here in the dirt with Kwilé, kept bringing him food and clean clothes and conversations about nothing and everything—

Maybe one day Kwilé would find his way out too.

Jesse pushed the bag toward him. “Take the water, at least.”

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