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"I'd like to make a deal with you." A deal?" The lieutenant looked suspicious."If I could help you get a big drug dealer in jail, will you help me?" Help you how? We are going to take you to the hospital." More help than that." I again looked at the others and remained silent."Leave us," the lieutenant said to the sergeant and policewoman.When they were gone, I said, "My mom's a junky and I hate my life. If I help you, will you help us? Will you give us that witness protection thing and give us some money and get my mom off drugs?"I thought the lieutenant was going to cry. He was a big, strong man in his late forties or early fifties. He had been a cop for a long time and was street smart and used to the scum that he dealt with every day. But his eyes watered and he found it hard to speak. And then he dropped to a knee and hugged me tight."I will talk to the D.A. I can't do it, but he can. But let's get you to the hospital now and make sure you're okay. Um, the doctor is going to, um. Kwong. He'd been drafted into duty as a chaperone once again – and now, a nearly full-time one.For the next month, Mr. Kwong stuck to us like flypaper. He was given a key to our place, and provided our transportation to and from work each day. More problematically, he stayed with us in our apartment during the evenings; it was almost as if we had a third roommate. He typically departed the premises right before bedtime, and showed up bright and early in the morning to take us to work. This greatly inhibited any meaningful conversation between Wendy and me. Nonetheless, we did our best to keep our routines intact. Wendy and I fixed dinner every evening, but only for ourselves; we didn't give a fuck about Kwong's comfort. Kwong seemed unfazed by our lack of hospitality. He wasn't there to socialize with us, and he prepared his own meals.This little arrangement ended with the beginning of harvest season, and my subsequent transfer back to the agricultural sector. With Wendy and I no.
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