Davis Channing sat on his hands to keep himself from pulling at the starched collar of his dress shirt. He looked over his shoulder to where his parents were sitting. His mom offered a kind smile with worry on her face, something he had permanently marred her with. Then there was his dad, stoic, but also sitting on his hands. Like Davis. Keeping his fidgets of worry still.
And next to them was Dr. Henderson, the oncologist that had helped save Davis’s life just four years ago. He had gray hair and thick eyebrows that sometimes brushed against his glasses. He gave Davis a smile and a small nod of encouragement.
“Mr. Channing.” The judge called from her bench. The white collar over her robe was in stark contrast to the robe and her dark skin. The room smelled vaguely of urine and sweat, which Davis would forever associate with the smell of desperation.
“Yes, Your Honor?” Davis now stood; his hands itched to grip the railing in front of him, to find purchase in something that would ground him to this world. Instead, they stayed at his side, flat against his legs, giving off the appearance of being calm.
“I see here you completed an inpatient stay at a rehabilitation facility.” She flipped through the report that had been provided by his psychiatrist and counselors at the inpatient rehab Davis had called home for six weeks. “You did well there.” She stared at him over her glasses. “Are you continuing treatment now that you’ve been discharged?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings a few times a week.” He wanted to stop his heart from pounding in his chest. “I still see my therapist a couple times a month, and I meet with my NA sponsor frequently.” The fact that his NA sponsor was at his school made that easier.
“Your attorney has petitioned the court that your stay in rehab be counted as time served.” She flipped through some more paperwork. “Given your health history and your exemplary record since your arrest back in the summer, I’m inclined to agree.”
For the first time since Davis Channing was arrested for possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, he breathed. It shuttered and stuttered out his chest, pulling his soul out with the breath.
“But—”
Oh no. No. No. No. No. Shit. No.
There was a feeling of lightheadedness, some spots in front of his eyes. He pushed his fingers into the sides of his thighs, needing a purchase of something. Absently, he realized the rushing in his head was his own breath. Swallowing against the dryness in his mouth, his throat, he fought to control his breath.
“I cannot, in good conscience, let this charge go without there being some restitution.” She looked up at Davis, and he saw no compassion, but maybe understanding? His stomach cramped, but he kept his hands at his sides, waiting for whatever the judge had to say. “You are sentenced to 300 hours of community service.”
Oh. Davis felt a cold sweat pebble over his skin. He guessed wearing a bright reflective vest and picking up trash couldn’t do any more damage to his already dismantled reputation. And thank God it wasn’t more time in a cell.
“I have spoken with Dr. Henderson at Children’s Hospital, you will report to the oncology clinic there on Monday.”
“Excuse me?” Shock pushed down his spine, heat coated his stomach, and now his hands shook.
“Dr. Henderson has asked that you complete the 300 hours of community service at the oncology unit where you were treated. He has stated he thinks it will be good for you to be reminded of what you have been through.” The judge looked past him to Dr. Henderson. Davis turned as well, seeing his doctor and parents. They all seemed relieved.
He did not feel relieved.
Davis closed his eyes, not looking at his parents, their fancy attorney, or even the judge behind the bench.
He was going back to the clinic.
He was going to have to go back to the clinic and work.
And see his doctor and his nurses, people he respected. People who loved him.
People he had let down.
Davis began to think more time in a cell wouldn’t be so bad after all.
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