Sometimes we want so much to help, it seems that all we can do is hurt. His sleep is restless; he tosses and turns, twitches, kicks, grunts, sweats. Every few minutes, a few slurred, incomprehensible words slide between his grinding teeth. Half of me wants to hold him close, press my body against his, thick with muscle, slimy with perspiration, with a mind of its own now somehow. The other half of me is absolutely terrified. Terrified of him, of what he became at noon today, while I was safely in my classroom at school, cheerfully teaching my students, feeling secure in my life…but no, not of what he became, because he did not become anything, but of what he is, of what he has always been, what I always KNEW he was; but it just never felt real before today. It’s one thing to “know,” in the abstract sense, to be able to talk about it with comfort and ease: he’s an addict, but he stopped using. It’s another to KNOW it, deep down, to come face to face with it…to have it jump up out of nowhere at you.