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you told me?ā€

Dad chooses his words carefully. ā€œThere has been some information coming in through your ā€˜Find Jakeā€™ page. I thought youā€™d seen it, but I can tell thatā€™s not the case.ā€

Iā€™m not following. ā€œThere hasnā€™t been anything on the page for days.ā€

He nods, and I hate that he knows something I donā€™t. ā€œIt sounds like Jenna deleted the entries before they were posted. She didnā€™t feel it was good to put the information out in public, but she shared it with the police. There are a number of individuals who say theyā€™ve witnessed Jake taking prescription painkillers when he thinks nobody is watching. And one who says he walked in on Jake buying them in the bathroom at school.ā€

Iā€™m actually struck dumb: by the fact that idiot online trolls have any part in this conversation, by the fact that the page I started to help Jake has so completely turned against him. Iā€™m stung too by the fact that Jenna hid this from me, even if she thought she was protecting me.

ā€œJake didnā€™t rob the pharmacy,ā€ I say, willing truth into the words. ā€œAnd the sooner you and your colleagues figure that out, the sooner weā€™ll find him.ā€ I turn away, disgusted. ā€œI canā€™t believe I thought youā€™d help. Youā€™ve wanted Jake out of the picture from the second you met him. Go back to watching your show. Weā€™ll find him on our own.ā€

Even as I say it, Iā€™m not sure who I mean by ā€œweā€ anymore, only that I canā€™t do it alone.

My dad is wrong about Jake robbing the pharmacy. I have no doubt about that. But looking back over the last yearā€”the mood swings, the terrible grades, the inconsistency on the court, and especially the things Jake said to me before the championship gameā€”Iā€™m sick as I realize he might be right about the painkillers. And maybe thatā€™s why I got so mad.

Because what kind of pharmacist will I be if I donā€™t even notice when somebody I care about is suffering from something this serious? If Iā€™m the one who practically forced him to take the pills in the first place?

Then I hate myself for making this about me, about this dream I have that Jake always supported.

Was I like this when we were together? Was it always all about me? Where was I for his dreams? Did I ever even ask what he wanted to do beyond basketball, or just go on and on about what I was going to do? Am I part of the reason he couldnā€™t see past senior year and college ball?

I open the text on my phoneā€”the last four words Jake sent.

Itā€™s not your fault.

Heā€™s wrong. In my case, anyway. Kolt and Luke loved Jake longer and better than I ever did. They didnā€™t abandon him. And even though I know I shouldnā€™t feel guilty for walking away from a relationship that wasnā€™t working, Iā€™m sick knowing how completely I shut out a person I loved who needed me.

And what am I doing to help? So far, all Iā€™ve done is mess everything up. Sure, Iā€™ve read every article online and pried every piece of inside information out of my dad. But hardly any of that has translated to actual action. And what have I been doing instead? Filling out scholarship applications and graduation paperwork, pretending Iā€™m trying to distract myself from tragedy but really just doing what I do best: focusing on me.

No more.

Even though I fundamentally disagree with pretty much everything my dad said, a memory surfaces that makes me wonder how many conversations I read wrongā€”and if money might have something to do with this after all.

When we were watching so much Greyā€™s last summer, Jake actually walked away from the TV during one episode. I found him out front, lying on his back in the grass.

ā€œMust be nice,ā€ he said.

ā€œWhat?ā€ I asked.

ā€œTo have enough money to go to rehab whenever you need it. To check in and come out changed after thirty days, as many times as it takes. Like a freaking magic trick.ā€

It took me a minute to make the connection between what we just watched and what he was saying. ā€œDid your dad ever go?ā€

ā€œOnce,ā€ he said. ā€œWe hadnā€™t even finished paying it off before he fell off the wagon again. My mom tried to get him to go back, but he never would. Too expensive. Too hard.ā€ He closed his eyes, let out a long, slow breath. ā€œThey had started fighting about it again when he died.ā€

I couldnā€™t think of the right thing to say, so I filled the silence with the only words I could think of. ā€œIā€™m sorry. I wish it had turned out differently. I wish he could have gone back.ā€

Jakeā€™s smile was forced and bitter. ā€œIt wouldnā€™t have worked anyway. Theyā€™re happy to take your money, but they canā€™t make you change.ā€

ā€œItā€™s not about the money,ā€ I started.

ā€œNo,ā€ he said, with a look that let me know just how thoroughly I didnā€™t get it. ā€œWhen youā€™ve got it, it never is.ā€

I picture him now, needing help but thinking itā€™s out of his reach.

Maybe I still donā€™t understand. Maybe heā€™s too stubborn to accept help, even if I offer it. But I can at least try.

I spend the next two hours researching rehab facilities and programs and payment options. I print anything thatā€™s promising, just in case. And when Iā€™m done, I send a text to Jake, praying that maybe heā€™ll see it somehow.

It IS my fault, and Iā€™m sorry. Whatever youā€™re going through, I am here.

Dictionary.com says

search means ā€œto look carefully to find something missing or lostā€

and warrant means ā€œauthorization, sanction, or justification.ā€

And search warrant means the cops can

dump out your brotherā€™s drawers,

where the clothes still smell like him,

scatter the mail from thirty-nine colleges

you stacked on his desk,

grab the mattress so hard it rips

in exactly the spot heā€™d let you sleep

when you were lonely and sad

after your dad died.

I donā€™t think they would

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