Page 266 of Disarm
“Good,” he says. “Step two, if you suspect he’s in immediate danger?”
“Call 911,” I say automatically. I’ve heard the operator’s voice in my dreams since that night.
“Yes,” he says. “And while you’re on with emergency services?”
“I… stay with him,” I say slowly.
“Right,” he says. “You don’t call his therapist or his dad before. You call them after. The sequence matters. EMTs first when it’s life-or-death.”
I nod. That, at least, I’m solid on.
“Now,” he says. “Different scenario. He texts you, ‘Volume is nine, I’m not safe,’ but he’s on campus, breathing, talking. Not actively harming himself, but at high risk. What are your options?”
“I drive to him,” I say.
“That’s one,” he nods. “What else?”
I think. “Call Dr. K,” I say. “Or the campus crisis line. Or tell him to go to the ER and meet him there.”
“Good,” he says. “Now, for your sake, we’re adding a rule. You must loop in at least one other person within fifteen minutes of learning he’s at an eight or above. Not later. Not ‘if it gets worse.’ Immediately.”
I make a face. “A snitch rule,” I mutter.
“Accountability rule,” he corrects. “Who’s on that list?”
I tick them off on my fingers. “Dr. K. Mom. Ashton, and you.”
“The campus crisis line,” he adds. “And, if available, any future psychiatrist or case manager. You are not allowed to be the sole holder of the information ‘Caleb is in danger’ anymore.”
My stomach twists. “They’re going to hate me,” I say. “For dragging them in every time his brain yells.”
“They’re adults who have already signed up for this,” Luis says. “If they feel overwhelmed, it’s their job to say so. Not yours to preemptively protect them by doing it alone.”
I stare at him. “You and Dr. K have been hanging out, huh?”
Luis smiles, small and sad. “We share brain cells sometimes,” he admits. “Now, what about you? When Caleb is high-volumebut safe—say, a six or seven—but your own dial is at a nine from fear. How do you take care of your nervous system?”
“Is that allowed?” I ask, genuinely. “Taking care of me while he’s… like that?”
“It’s required,” he says firmly. “You are no good to him fried to a crisp. So when you notice your hands shaking, your thoughts racing, your anger spiking, what helps you come down a notch?”
I think of stupid things. The feel of my controller in my hands. The weight of my mom’s cat when I’m at her place. The smell of sawdust and copper when I’m wiring something and know what I’m doing.
“Showers,” I say slowly. “Hot. Music. Calling Benny and talking about anything else for ten minutes. Sitting on the floor with my back against the bed instead of hovering like a helicopter. Letting someone else sit with him while I go outside and breathe like a normal human.”
“Good,” he says, writing. “Those are regulation strategies. They go on your side of the crisis plan.”
I stare at the page. Two columns: Caleb and Miguel. Between them, arrows and names. It looks like a wiring diagram.
“I still feel like the line,” I admit.
“You are a line,” he says. “An important one. We’re just making sure you’re braided with others, so you’re not the only thing between him and the drop.”
I blow out a breath. “What if I can’t do it?” I ask again. It feels like the real question. “What if he tries again and I don’t find him in time? Or he succeeds someday? What if all this just postpones the inevitable? What if loving him means watching him slowly kill himself in front of me? Over and over until one day he doesn’t miss?”
The worst-case scenario I’ve been skirting around since the day I found him in that dorm.
Luis doesn’t look away. “If that’s where this goes,” he says quietly, “it will be devastating. For you. For his parents. For a lot of people. And it still won’t have been a mistake to love him.”
