Pam is tweaking in a tent.
Four days ago, she walked out of the hospital
against medical advice with a PICC line in her chest.
She was on her tenth day of a six week
antibiotic treatment for Endocarditis.
She refuses to go back.
Pam is in her ninth day of a manic phase.
She was first diagnosed
with mental illness at seven.
She was first hospitalized at nine.
She has been in and out ever since.
Pam is self medicating with heroin and meth.
Every four inches under her feet is an uncapped rig.
Pam is forty-six. She is five-four and weighs
around 300 lbs. Large surgery scars stretch
across her knees and shoulders. Sores spot her body.
She can't walk without a cane.
Pam is hot, on paper, and has two warrants.
She is screaming at me, "This is bullshit!"
I look in her eyes, nod, and say,
You're right. It's my job.
I am a professional bullshit catcher.
She shrieks, "You don't care."
You're right, I don't care,
but I will be kind and patient with you.
She took a breath, calmed, and smiled.
"Thank you."
It took her an hour to smoke a cigarette
and pack two bags. We double cuffed her
and left without a scrap.