Midnight Jesus

It's three A.M. in the side yard of a shack in the worst part of town.

I've got a dirty-faced baby on my hip and there's a pit bull standing on the septic tank in the next yard over, barking his head off. My patient sits on the hood of her ex-husband's lowrider, smoking a cigarette and dumping her pills into a mud hole by the right front tire. Airbrushed across the hood of the car is a cross-eyed Jesus with open arms. She lays her hand on top of his as the still-hot engine ticks. Through tears she pleads, "Help me, Jesus, please."

The dog is silent. Sirens approach. "Just breathe," I tell her. "Everything's gonna be all right." The baby fidgets, resting her head against me, staring up into my eyes. I raise one finger and she holds it tight. I fumble for the words again. "Just breathe."