Disciplinary Action

by Onley James

  “The Mall,” the man said, like Cal was crazy.

  “What day is it?” Cal asked, feeling crazy.

  The officer crouched beside him, eyeing the dog warily. “Wednesday,” he answered, sounding preoccupied. “Hey, kid. Can you tell me what year it is?”

  Cal frowned. “I’m not crazy,” he said, voice uncertain as he searched for the answer buried under the cobwebs in his brain. “Twenty nineteen?”

  The officer’s ambivalent noise sent a cold chill through Cal. “Can you tell me who’s president?”

  Cal tried to think of the name. It was so close, right on the tip of his tongue, but still too far away. “I know it. Just give me a second. I didn’t take my meds today. It makes me…foggy.”

  The cop scoffed. “What kind of meds, kid? Antipsychotics? Antidepressants? Benzos? Did you go off your bipolar meds or something?”

  “Insulin,” Cal said. “I need insulin.” So grateful to at least be able to say that much.

  “Well, that’s a first. Have you tried registering at the shelter? They might be able to set you up at the church. They sometimes have programs for homeless diabetics.”

  “Can’t wait,” Cal muttered. “Need it now. I could die.”

  There was a long pause. “Should I call an ambulance for you?”

  Cal’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head violently, groaning as the world tilted on its axis. What would that bill look like? He couldn’t even afford medication, much less an actual ambulance or a hospital stay. “No. I-I have somebody I can call. A friend.” He pulled his flip phone free, showing it to the officer. “Can I just please wait here until he comes?” he lied.

  Something in Cal’s tone must have sounded insincere because the officer narrowed his eyes at him. “Let’s just wait and see if somebody’s coming for you first, kid.”

  Disappointment settled deep in Cal’s bones. There were only two numbers in the phone. Bastian and one saved without a name. Daddy. He couldn’t call Bastian. He couldn’t remember why, but calling Bastian was bad. Calling Daddy was probably bad, too. Gideon. Daddy Gideon. What choice did he have? It only rang once. “Callum?”

  Cal’s heart did something funny in his chest at the concern in Gideon’s voice. When he went to speak, his voice cracked, ending in a sob. “I think I’m in trouble, Daddy.”

  There was a sharp inhalation. “Where are you, baby? You don’t sound right. Why are you slurring your words? Are you alone?”

  “I think I made a mistake,” he managed before the phone slipped from his fingers.

  The dog licked at the tears on his face, but he was no longer capable of anything but just lying there. His arms and legs were weighed down by heavy stones, and his brain felt bruised and swollen.

  The officer picked up his phone. “Hello? This is Officer Marshall, who am I speaking with?”

  Cal didn’t know what Gideon said. He wouldn’t be surprised if he just hung up and pretended they didn’t know each other. This could definitely ruin everything for him. Gideon was Cal’s headmaster. Bastian was his friend. He ran those two statements over and over for fear of losing those facts again. His memories were slipping away, his thoughts falling out like sand through a colander. He liked Gideon so much. Enough to blackmail him. Something twisted inside him.

  “What do you want me to do about his dog?” Cal heard the officer ask. “Yes, sir. The Galleria Mall. West Entrance. Are you sure you want me to call them?”

  Gideon wanted the officer to call somebody else. Cal had no idea why it hurt so much. They didn’t even know each other. At all. Three rough sexual encounters did not make a random stranger responsible for his survival. Especially when the only reason Gideon had even punished Cal again was because of blackmail. Cal was so desperate for any kind of touch he’d literally blackmailed his headmaster into fucking him. His whole body felt like it was on fire. The dog whined, blanketing himself over Cal’s body.

  In the distance, Cal could hear sirens. Gideon had told them to simply call the ambulance and take him away. Part of him thought maybe it would’ve been better if he had never called Gideon at all. Then he could have at least pretended. He found it was impossible to open his eyes, but that probably didn’t matter anymore. He focused on the dog pushing his head up under his chin.

  “Callum!”

  Gideon. The dog growled low. “Shh, he’s okay, boy,” Cal mumbled.

  “Jesus, how long has he been like this? What happened to his jacket? His shoes?” Gideon sounded angry. Really angry. But not with Cal. With the officer. He wasn’t mad at Cal. He sighed.

  “Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down. I only found him like this about ten minutes before I called you. Didn’t anybody notice he was missing?”

  Gideon’s voice went cold as ice. “Of course, we noticed. He was ill with a stomach bug yesterday. I dropped him at his home. I assumed he’d decided to stay home today.”

  Today? But Gideon had dropped Cal off just a few hours ago, hadn’t he? The officer had said Wednesday, not Tuesday. Had Cal been lying there for two days? Why couldn’t he remember?

  Rough hands pulled him close. “Callum. When was the last time you ate? Where are your meds?”

  “You came,” Cal said, still unable to pry his eyes open but trying to smile so Gideon knew he was grateful. “I’m sorry.” There was a commotion and the sound of doors opening and metal clamoring, and then the dog was growling once more. “Don’t let them hurt him,” Cal begged Gideon. “He’s a good boy.”

  “Come here, boy,” Gideon commanded, tone leaving no room for argument. A moment later, Gideon crooned, “That’s it. Good boy.” Cal shivered.

  “Sir, do you know this man?” a female voice asked. “What can you tell us? Parents? Next of kin?”

  “He’s my student. Callum Whyte. He’s nineteen years old. Mother deceased, father’s…out of the picture. He’s a type one diabetic, and I don’t know when he had his last dose of insulin, and he seems unable to answer. He has no next of kin that I’m aware of, but as his headmaster, I’ve tried to keep a close watch over him.”

  Cal groaned as a finger pulled up his eyelid and shined a light in his eye. “Pupils reactive to light.” There was a sound like buttons flying and then sticky pads pressed to his chest and belly, and then he was flying into the air, landing roughly on a cloud. “He’s tachy. BP is ninety over forty.”

  “What hospital are you taking him to?” Gideon asked.

  “Asheville General.”

  “Shit, Cap. His glucose is maxing out the machine. His breath smells like rotten fruit, his membranes are dry, and his skin is tenting. I think he’s in DKA,” the female voice said.

  A voice directly over Cal’s head responded with, “Hang a bag of saline. Run it wide open, we need to replace his fluids.”

  “Can’t you just give him insulin?” Gideon asked from far away.

  “Sir, if we give him insulin while he’s hypovolemic we could kill him. We need to know his potassium level first. We gotta get this bus moving. You can talk to the treating physician there with the patient’s permission.”

  “Cal, I’ll be right behind you. I just have to make a call.”

  There was the sound of doors slamming and movement, and then nothing at all.

  “Lucky Leo, what’s up, homie? I never hear from you anymore.”

  Gideon rolled his eyes. “Listen, Des. I need you to meet me at Asheville General. Now.”

  There was a sound of fabric on fabric as his friend seemed to shift position on the other side of the call. “You okay? You hurt?”

  Gideon smiled despite himself. Even after thirty fucking years, Desmond was always ready to help. “Not me. A…friend. But I have this dog with me and they don’t allow dogs in hospitals. You live nearby, and you’re literally the only person I can think of who knows animals and doesn’t hate them. Besides, he appears…menacing.”

  There was a snort of laughter. “Menacing. I love when you go all professor on me. Like we didn’t both grow up in the
same hood. Yeah, I’ll come watch your menacing dog, Mister Hundred-Dollar-Words. Give me ten to throw some clothes on. I’ll meet you outside the ED.”

  Gideon breathed a sigh of relief as he disconnected, side-eyeing the pit bull who now rode shotgun. The dog seemed just as leery of him, refusing to make eye contact. “This is a Tesla, so don’t get any ideas, okay?”

  The dog’s mouth fell open, and its tongue unfurled from its mouth as he began to pant loudly. Gideon made it to the emergency room in less than fifteen minutes. Other than a small puddle of drool on his leather seats, the dog had been perfectly well behaved. He let out a breath when he saw Desmond waiting for him, the glow of his bald brown head gleaming under the security lights. He wore jeans and a henley the same color blue as his eyes. He leaned against the wall beside the door. It occurred to Gideon then that he didn’t have a leash for the dog.

  When Desmond saw him pull up, he pushed away from the wall and knocked on the window. Gideon pushed the button until the glass was at half mast. The pit bull immediately pushed his face into the crack to greet the man on the other side like they were old friends. “Be careful. I don’t think he’s dangerous, but you never know,” Gideon warned.

  This time, it was Des who rolled his eyes. “What’s his name?”

  His name? Dog? He hadn’t thought about it. Gideon had never had pets, and the only time he’d ever asked for one, Grant had told him he wasn’t responsible enough. Grant had always thought Gideon was too irresponsible for lots of things. Pets. Children. Anything that hadn’t fit into Grant’s tidy plan for their lives. Gideon frowned, pushing thoughts of his dead husband from his mind. There was no collar, but the dog at least deserved a name. He’d done his best to protect Callum from harm. “Aloysius.”

  Desmond’s face dropped. “You can’t be serious. That’s just cruel. Why can’t you just remove the stick from your ass for one night and name the dog something normal? Rex? Spot? Chance? Buddy?”

  Gideon ignored him. “I don’t have a leash either. Sorry.”

  “We don’t need a leash, do we?” Desmond crooned, kissing the dog’s nose before popping the door open.

  Gideon swore the dog smiled at his friend, hopping down, little nub of a tail wagging his whole back half. Desmond crouched beside the dog, scratching his head. “You need a bath, huh? And a checkup.” To Gideon, he said, “I’m gonna take him to the clinic.” He looked the dog over. “Correction, I’m going to take her to the clinic. How can somebody as smart as you not realize this is a girl dog?”

  “I don’t tend to check the genitals of random animals. Besides, I was a bit preoccupied with the unconscious student at my feet,” Gideon quipped.

  “Still want to call this poor girl Aloysius?” Des inquired, still squatting beside the scarred up beast.

  “Fine, call her Alexa. They both mean warrior, and she protected Cal when he was in a very fragile state.”

  “Of course, she did. You’re the goodest girl, aren’t you?” Desmond pulled a treat from his pocket and fed it to the dog.

  “Do you always keep dog treats on you?” Gideon asked.

  “Veterinarians are always prepared. We’re like the boy scouts but without all the pedophilia and homophobia. Do you always check on your grad students when they end up in the hospital? Or babysit their dogs?”

  “He’s not a grad student and mind your own fucking business.”

  Desmond snorted. “Yeah, somehow that’s what I thought you’d say.”

  Gideon snorted a laugh. “I’ll call you when I can come and get her.”

  “No worries. She’s got a date with a flea bath and some nail clippers. Come on, Alexa.”

  The dog trotted off with his friend without a backward glance at Gideon. He parked the car in the spot designated for the emergency room patients and jogged towards the automatic doors. Inside, it was quiet as a church. It wasn’t empty by any means, but the people seated around the waiting room were all whispering to each other or just wrapped up in their own misery. Behind a shiny white formica counter sat a man with a buzzcut in teal scrubs.

  “Can I help you sir?” the man asked, looking Gideon up and down, possibly for an injury.

  Gideon fought to remain calm. “Yes, I’m looking for a patient just brought in by ambulance. Callum Whyte.”

  The man tapped on the keyboard in front of him. “Are you family, sir?”

  “Yes,” Gideon lied without missing a beat.

  “Uh, okay, let me check in the back and see if he’s stable enough for visitors. One moment, please.”

  Stable enough? Gideon’s stomach clenched at the words. He should have checked on him the moment he noticed he wasn’t in school. How long had he been on the streets? How long had he gone without food or proper medication? Why hadn’t he taken him to the hospital yesterday? Gideon had known something was wrong all day, but he’d ignored it, the voice in his head screaming that the boy wasn’t his concern. Which was just stupid because, of course, he was. He’d agreed to watch over him for the six weeks they were involved, had agreed to be the boy’s Daddy and there was more to that than just sex and punishment. It was quite clear Callum needed a Daddy, a protector, somebody to keep him safe.

  “Sir?”

  Gideon jerked his head upwards, realizing the nurse was back and speaking to him. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said he’s not conscious, but as soon as he’s stabilized, they’re moving him upstairs to the step-down unit. If you’d like to head up to the fifth-floor waiting room, I can ask his doctor to come speak to you as soon as he’s able.”

  “Of course,” Gideon muttered, already heading towards the elevator down the hall.

  He hated this place. The bleach smell, the frigid air, the decor, which was some kind of industrial chic with its chrome and wood finishes and sterile white floors. There was an energy to the place that forever set Gideon’s teeth on edge. A sort of melancholy that made people feel like death just lurked in the corners, waiting for them all.

  As Gideon stepped off the elevator, he sucked in a breath, pain searing his chest like an ice pick through his ribcage. He’d been there before. Waiting. Waiting for them to tell him what had happened to his husband. It wasn’t the same floor or even the same waiting room. They’d sent Gideon to the basement that time…to say his final goodbyes.

  But the shiny pale wooden tables and olive green chairs were the same. Bookshelves overflowing with donated books nobody would ever bother to read lined the back wall. A television in the corner played a home design show on mute, subtitles blipping across the screen. It was the same room, no matter the floor, no matter the hospital. It was the room where people sat you down and made you wait to hear news that would change your life for better or worse.

  He flopped down in the chair closest to the door. He should call somebody. Anybody. Surely somebody had to care about Callum, somebody other than the headmaster he’d blackmailed. It seemed impossible that somebody wouldn’t have come to his rescue. An aunt? A family friend? Somebody who saw Cal was an innocent victim in his father’s schemes? Somebody who didn’t think an appropriate punishment was to leave a nineteen-year-old penniless and dying in the street?

  “Sir?”

  Gideon lurched to his feet at the man standing before him. He looked like he couldn’t be much more than thirty, with his unwrinkled face and his big brown eyes hidden behind black framed glasses. He wore black scrubs and a lab coat that identified him as a Dr. McManus. His stethoscope hung from an oversized pocket, and his sandy blond hair stood up in all directions like he might have been catching some sleep in the on-call room before Cal had arrived.

  “Yes, how is he?”

  The man folded his arms across his chest. “You’re family?”

  “The only family he’s got,” Gideon bluffed.

  “Well, Callum needs to start taking better care of himself. His blood sugar is well over 900. His potassium is elevated, he’s severely dehydrated. Another few hours and he very well might have died. Who does
he live with?”

  That was a great question. Who had Cal been living with? “He was staying with a friend, or so I was told. I no longer believe that to be the case.”

  “He’s still not conscious. We’ve given him a small dose of insulin to get him started, but he’s going to have to remain here on an insulin drip until we can slowly stabilize him. We need to watch his fluids and electrolytes. We placed a nasogastric tube to keep him from aspirating. He’s a very sick kid.”

  Gideon dropped back down into the seat, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t know how this happened. Just last week, his sugar had crashed so low, I almost took him to the hospital. Now, it’s through the roof.”

  The man shrugged. “He’s what we call a brittle diabetic. This isn’t the first time Callum’s been in here for treatment, according to his chart. I’m going to assume he’s had a major change of circumstance financially since his last admission four years ago. I can’t say for sure until he wakes up and we can ask him, but my guess is he’s been rationing his insulin. We’re seeing it more and more in type 1 diabetics who can no longer afford their medications.”

  “How much could it cost somebody who needs it to stay alive? Surely, there’s some program in place to help people like him? People without money?”

  “There are programs in place but, at his age, I don’t know that he’d know how to access them. And they truthfully aren’t for people like Callum who’s been using U500.” Gideon didn’t know what any of that meant but he let the doctor finish. “Your average long-acting insulin averages about two hundred and fifty dollars a vial, but if you need something like U500, it can run as much as fifteen hundred a vial. Imagine paying that times six vials and you’ll see why we’re in the crisis situation we’re in. I can set Callum up to speak with our diabetes educator but I doubt this is about a lack of education and more about a lack of funds. He looked pretty worse for wear.”