The Forgotten

Not many people brave walking through the encampment, though its shortcut is unmatched. I don’t see what the big deal is; they’re just people. I’ve even made friends—kind of.

Acquaintances, at best, but sometimes I bring a spare sandwich or two, and the locals leave me be. Today is no different from any other, apart from the cold. Early winter chill makes the sun feel warm and crisp, but it’s not enough to keep the nights above forty. 

Half these tents will be gone in the next few weeks, driven someplace warmer, further south. City ordinances, complete with tractors and a police brigade, will force everyone to leave before the harsh winter nights take hold.

A forced maelstrom with no alternative; if the residents had anywhere else to go, they wouldn't be here, but no one seems to care as long as they're not here.

Dodging sleeping bodies stuffed like sausages into threadbare sleeping bags, I pray all the immobile prone figures are still breathing.

I can’t explain why the hot pink sweater catches my attention. It’s not familiar. It’s nothing she wore when we were young; maybe it’s reminiscent of her style, but it’s been over a decade since I last saw her, well before we graduated from high school.

But I stop abruptly on my march through the unhoused tent city on my way to work—late, again—when I see her. Ella. 

Ella Thorne. 

She looks different, of course. Not just because her head is bobbing, like she’s falling asleep sitting up, or because she’s clearly high—has been for a while, judging by her rapidly aged skin and thinning hair. Time has been unkind to my first crush, but she still looks beautiful, and I’m struck stupid, staring like an asshole, debating waking her from her fugue state to say hello or keep walking.

The weight of my neurosis and depression made it nearly impossible to sustain a friendship when we were young. 

Times have changed, though. I have a few friends now, mostly online, some from college. More than that, lately, I’ve been feeling my age. Not old—I’m only thirty—but the passage of time is clearer than it used to be. These days, when I look up and pay attention, the world around me looks different.

Maybe it’s that feeling of nostalgia, of time slipping through my fingers. Whatever it is that compels me forward, I walk up to Ella, kneeling in front of her as she teeters, sitting on an upside-down plastic milk crate.

“Hey, Ella. It’s me, Helen. Helen Clark. Do you remember me?”

She doesn’t respond, just sways unsteadily in place. I don’t want to keep harassing her, but she’s completely unresponsive. It’s not uncommon through here, but something doesn’t feel right. Her breathing is shallow, coming out in choking, wheezing gasps. The words death rattle come to mind.

“Ella—fuck,” I grunt when she falls off the crate toward me. I catch her, expecting to be mowed over, but she’s so thin and light, I easily maneuver her to the ground. A gurgling sound bubbles out of her throat, thick and mucousy.

“Hey! I need some help!” I shout. To my surprise, a guy rushes right over. Larger than me, he easily shoves me off, moving Ella to her side in case she vomits.

“Get some Narcan,” he says steadily, totally cool and in control. Meanwhile, my typically disassociated ass is actually freaking out. 

“Where?” I ask, looking around the camp helplessly. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s od-ing. She needs Narcan. Get your shit together, ask around. Someone will have some.”

“Fuck.” People watch on like it’s an everyday occurrence. It probably is. “Does anyone have any Narcan?” It takes me a second to clear my voice and try again, louder. “Hey! I need some fucking Narcan people!”

An older woman jogs down the narrow pathway, and people have the decency to shuffle out of the way. “Here, here,” she says, handing the small plastic nasal injector to the guy on the ground with Ella.

With calm efficiency, I watch as he administers the life-saving drug. My heart is racing. Some people call out, asking if she’s okay.

They’re concerned about her but have their own problems and aren't getting involved.

We wait in tense silence, a collective breath held strong between us. Kneeling back down on Ella’s other side, I rub her shoulder, willing her to wake up. The guy who gave her the drug tells me it can take a few minutes to work.

“Ella,” I whisper. “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” I chant the words under my breath. In moments that felt like hours, I flash through every memory, all the way back to the first time I realized I liked her. It was the first time I realized I liked girls, too. 

She was so pretty—kind of plain, with light brown freckles dusting her nose and auburn red hair. She wore tall black boots and a velvet dress to school one day, and I couldn't stop staring. I wanted to kiss her. 

Boys were gross. Girls were annoying. But Ella… she was everything.

Missed connections, lost opportunities pass between us, and just as I circle back to the present, the world rushing back, my lips still muttering the plea, begging her to wake, she moans.

The two camp residents let out a heavy sigh of relief. The woman laughs, slapping the shoulder of the helpful older man. They don’t look like drug users. Just unhoused and down on their luck.

Lucky she had the Narcan on her.

I say as much, and the woman tells me, "It’s not an option not to have it here. Bodies pile up, otherwise. People outside the camp don’t realize—don’t care—how bad it is. They think people should just stop getting high, like it’s that simple. They have no idea what addiction really means."

I look down at Ella, who’s still moaning, but some of her color returns. “Should we bring her to the hospital?” I ask.

The woman shakes her head. “If she wants to go. Doubtful.” She drags her gaze up to me. “It’s okay, you know. You can go. She’ll be fine, more or less.”

I nod, knowing I need to get to work. I was late before all this.

But I can’t drag myself away from Ella. I try talking to her, but she’s incoherent. They tell me she’ll be out of it for a while, and they’ll keep an eye on her today.

Reluctantly, I leave, but it takes effort to pull myself away. My mighty shortcut feels like it’s mocking me now, but I move through the camp on slower feet. 

But when I reach the edge, my final step beyond the encampment lands like a boot in mud. I can't tell if it's my foot that refuses to lift or my body that won't move forward. I'm stuck, sifting through a dense mental fog, like my brain is being squeezed, pressurized like an airplane cabin.

The air feels heavy, suffocating, pressing down on me with an invisible weight. Time slows, stretching each passing second into an eternity. 

My foot won't lift. It won't fucking lift. I can't move. I'm choking.

"Ella! Ella!"

I gasp, sucking in air like an asthmatic.

I'm going to throw up. I turn on my side—nope, I'm already on my side—and vomit, but nothing comes out. Just bile, sour-burning acid. A cool hand rubs my shoulder, but the touch feels like a thousand volts, sharp against my skin. Coughing, it takes me a second to come around.

Sharon's face comes into view. Deep wrinkles, ancient laugh lines like they were carved from clay, stretch across her face while she grimaces. I turn my head, but the action makes it feel like my head weighs a hundred pounds underwater. My lips feel numb. My mouth falls open, spit dribbling out. 

Daniel's here, too. Watching. I glance down and see the Narcan sitting innocuously on the cold grass.

Damn. Not again.

A shiver wracks through my body.

I heave a deep sigh, both relieved and disappointed I'm still alive. At least it was an accident this time.

My blurring, out-of-focus gaze flickers down the walkway as a tall brunette in a fancy LL Bean jacket saunters away. She turns back, and for a split second, recognition hits.