THAT PEACH COLORED BOX.

June 18, 2007

I wrote this one because I couldn’t stop thinking about the silence. Not the kind you get after a loud call winds down—but the kind that hangs around long after the scene clears, when everyone else moves on and you’re left sitting with what you saw. That little peach-colored box of Narcan hit me harder than I expected. It wasn’t about trauma or blood or sirens—it was about what’s left behind. The small, ordinary things that scream the loudest when no one’s listening. This post wasn’t about a call—it was about what a call can mean, if you stop long enough to really see it.