I see the bad moon arising, I see trouble on the way
Who: Saint George [narrative] When: Monday Where: George's office What: Marijuana's actions start having a noticeable effect.
It had started innocently enough. He'd been talking with one of the soldiers who'd come in for an appointment, explaining the ins and outs of claiming short-term disability through the VA.
"There's so many forms," the man, David, marvelled. "This stack is like the size of my head."
"You should see the paperwork to process those forms," George said, laughing. "We fill whole filing cabinets, man."
David grinned. "Glad I don't have your job, then. So, if I get prescribed painkillers, those are paid for too?"
"Yep. If you go see the secretary down the hall, she can get you a list of approved doctors around here."
"So no doctor shopping for someone who can get me the good pain meds?" David joked.
"Sorry," George laughed, "you'll probably get stuck with the generic crap."
"Eh, that's probably good," David said, rubbing the back of his neck, the smile fading off his face. "I got a friend who ended up going through like two bottles of Vicodin a week." He looked a little surprised to have said that.
"That happens a lot," George said, nodding. Soldiers had the tendency to over-share slightly when they were around him. It wasn't something he did deliberately, but he hadn't found a way to turn the effect off. "People manage to stay off illegal drugs and end up addicted to the prescription stuff instead."
"Yeah," David said sadly. "He actually went into rehab, and was doing really well, but he just checked himself out a week ago, halfway through the program."
"That's a shame," George said, expression growing a little more serious. He finished the appointment with David, wishing him luck and scheduling a follow-up, and then sat back to consider the conversation he'd just had.
There was nothing strange about someone checking themselves out of rehab. There was nothing strange about someone relapsing. Sad, yes, but not unusual. What was unusual was the amount that he was hearing the same story from several different people.
"They were doing good. They'd checked themselves into rehab, they seemed to be fine, and then they just checked out. Didn't talk to anyone about it, wouldn't listen to any of the doctors."
It didn't neccesarily mean anything. So it had been a bad month for rehab patients. Sometimes, bad months just happened, and there was an upswing in murders or suicides or car crashes or lost jewelry, whatever, and it was a coincidence. Even in a city as full of gods as New York, coincidences still happened.
But after Sebastian and Opium, Jo and Cocaine, Patrick and his drinking problem, George was very paranoid about controlled substances. Especially drugs. He'd had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach for a while now, ever since he and Sebastian had admitted they were married. He'd been expecting the demons to do something stupid, someone to do something stupid, and the fact that they hadn't was making him twitchy. Glad, but twitchy. He'd check this out, if only to put his mind at ease.
He got up, heading down the hall to the office of Mike, their on-staff psychiatrist. His door was open, and George knocked on the doorframe with his wedding ring. "Hey."
"Hey!" Mike said, looking up with a busy smile. There were papers scattered across his desk, several windows of e-mails on the computer screen next to him. "What's up?"
"Nothing much, just stretching my legs." George leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Man, is it me, or has it been a lousy month for rehab?"
"Jesus, don't even get me started," Mike said, shaking his head. "I've gotten twelve calls from patients this week, all freaked out about how they checked themselves out and it was a horrible mistake and now they don't know what to do, etc. Some of them want to go back, some want to know if they're going to lose their benefits, and it's all a pain in the ass. I almost want to take the phone off the hook, and I know that's awful, but damn."
"Huh," George said, eyes narrowing. He didn't want to make Mike break doctor-patient confidentiality, and he didn't want to look like he was fishing for information. But he was curious now. "Must be something in the water."
"I wouldn't be surprised, considering the water in this city," Mike snorted. "I've got a sister who works up at Mount Sinai, and she says that like half the people in the rehab programs just walked out. Seriously. One right after the other, like they made some big group decision."
"That's really weird," George said, mind already whirling with concerns. "Well, I don't mean to keep you if you're busy. Talk to you later."
Back in his office, George sat down at his computer and started checking through whatever VA files he had access to. If the government was footing the bill for a soldier's alcohol or drug treatment, he'd be able to find out about it. Of course, there were hundreds of names on the list in New York alone, and most of their files wouldn't have been updated if they'd left rehab within the last few weeks. He needed to narrow it down. He searched for court-ordered rehab treatments instead, since those were also added to a soldier's file. Those numbers were a little more manageable, and he scanned through them.
A few minutes later, he sat back from the computer, the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach much stronger. People leaving court-ordered rehab was a little more unusual, but not unheard of. But people doing it in these numbers was weird. The weirdest part, though, was the treatment facilities that had reported them missing from the program.
Mount Sinai. Utica Rescue Mission. New Life Christian Rehab Center. Nearly everyone who'd skipped out had been going to a treatment center specifically advertised as being Christian. George went back to the first list, the one of people who'd been in rehab voluntarily, and started checking through the cancellations again. Some had finished their treatment. Some had just checked out. But the same names popped up again. Mount Sinai. Utica. New Life. CMR Recovery Residence.
For whatever reason, drug addicts seemed to be climbing over each other to get out of Christian treatment centers. And these were just the people who the VA was paying for, the ones that George could actually see. He had no idea about the people who weren't soldiers, or who were paying out of pocket.
"Son of a bitch," George muttered. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he really, really did not like it. And to think, it had been the demons he'd been worried about.