Knowing we had zero cell service out on the dunes, my only choice was to lug Calvin into the truck and drive him 10 minutes into town, and the hospital where I had been taken before for a broken collarbone. I hoped the small town facility would be prepared to deal with someone who was dying from drug withdrawal, but had my doubts.
Carrying Calvin to the truck was much harder than I thought it would be. Drugs had stripped his once rather built body down to probably less than 140 pounds, but when you pick up all of that dead weight at once and try to carry it, it’s a completely different ball game.
I think I pulled my back out twice, but I eventually got Calvin to the truck and stuffed him up into the passenger seat out cold. I hoped he would wake during my fireman carry, but that was not the case, he was still motionless when I jumped behind the wheel and fired the engine.
I flicked the headlights on when I started to roll out of our parking spot by the track and saw something which made me immediately slam on the brakes.
Standing in the middle of the road out of the campsite, bathed in the pale headlights of the truck were two men. Two men I knew very well. Roger, and my father. They both held their forearms in front of their faces to shield themselves from the bright shine.