Chapter 9
What We Carry
Silence settled over the circle. Joshua met Colin’s eyes, giving him a small, steady nod: Your turn.
Colin leaned in, elbows on his knees, throat tight. “First off—thank you. I know it takes guts to walk through that door. I want you to know we see that. We appreciate it.”
Jamie looked up from his phone, just for a second.
“My name is Colin. I’m a prosecutor in Charlottesville, and I also volunteer with Camp Pride, which is how we ended up here.
This guy”—he gestured to Joshua—“is my husband, Joshua. He’s a therapist. The guy over there with all the art supplies is Nate, who’s going to make sure you leave here with something more interesting than a lecture.
” He gestured to Trent, who stood next to the door.
“Trent over there is our resident physical therapist and champion bus driver. And this”—he nodded toward Alex—“is Alex. He’s one of the reasons we’re doing this tour in the first place. ”
Alex blushed but didn’t look away.
“His folks came along for this part of the trip to chat with some of your parents. We’re here for two days,” Colin continued.
“Today’s going to be low-key—just introductions, some basic safety stuff, and a chance to get acquainted and ask questions.
Tomorrow we’ll dig in a little deeper. But here’s the deal: you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.
This is your space, not ours. We’re just here if you need us. ”
He paused, scanning the circle. Most of the kids were staring at the floor. Emma was picking at a loose thread on her flannel sleeve.
“So,” Colin said. “Let’s start with names. Tell us your name, your pronouns if you want to share them, and one thing you like to do. Doesn’t have to be deep. Just something that makes you happy.”
At first, all was still.
Finally, Nate raised his hand. “I’ll go first. I’m Nate, he/him, and I like writing things. Plays, stories, and journals, which is what we’re going to do later on!”
Nate’s bright energy was infectious, and a few kids smiled.
“I’m Alex,” Alex said, sitting up straighter. “He/him. I like video games, reading, and drawing. And I came to one of these support groups last year, and it kind of changed my life. So... yeah. That’s why I’m here.”
Marissa and Daniela exchanged a look. Then Marissa spoke up. “I’m Marissa. She/her. I like singing.”
“I’m Daniela,” her sister added. “She/her. I like reading.”
Ben adjusted his glasses. “I’m Ben. He/him. I like comic books and... um... baking.”
“Baking?” Jamie said, looking up from his phone. “Like, cookies?”
“Yeah. And brownies. My mom says I make the best brownies in Virginia.”
Jamie snorted. “I’m Jamie. He/they. I like music. And pissing off my stepdad.”
A couple of kids laughed.
Emilio shifted in his seat, jaw still tight. “Emilio. He/him. I play football.”
Everyone looked at Emma.
She didn’t lift her head. “Emma,” she said quietly. “She/her. I... I don’t know. I like books, I guess.”
“Books are good,” Joshua said gently. “What kind?”
Emma shrugged, still not looking up. “Fantasy. Stuff that’s not real.”
Colin felt that twist in his chest again.
Joshua let the silence sit for a moment, then said, “Okay. Thank you all for sharing. Now I’m going to hand it over to Colin, who’s going to talk about some practical stuff. Then we’ll open it up for questions.”
A few nods.
Colin moved his chair to the center of the circle. He’d done versions of this talk before—at schools, at UVA, at community centers—once at a juvenile detention facility where half the kids had already been through the system. But this felt different. Smaller. More personal.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s talk about drugs.”
Jamie’s head came up. Emilio’s arms tightened across his chest. Emma’s eyes stayed on the floor, but Colin saw her shoulders tense.
“I’m not going to stand here and lecture you about how drugs are bad, and you should just say no, and blah, blah, blah,” Colin told them.
“You’ve heard it all a thousand times, and it’s just not helpful…
or very interesting. What I want to talk about is reality.
Because the reality is, if you haven’t already been offered something yet, you will be.
And when that happens, I want you to be prepared. ”
He paused, scanning the circle. A few kids were actually looking at him now.
“I’m not here to make choices for you. I’m here for brutal honesty—because I’ve seen what happens when the wrong choice gets made.
Four years as a prosecutor, ten as a cop—I’ve seen kids like you, who tried something once and woke up in the ER, or didn’t wake up at all.
I’ve seen families gutted because nobody told the truth in time. ”
The room was quiet. Even Jamie had put his phone down.
“Here’s what I need you to understand,” Colin said.
“The drug supply right now is more dangerous than it’s ever been.
Fentanyl is showing up in everything—pills, cocaine, even weed sometimes.
And fentanyl is incredibly potent.” He blew out a breath and paused, his eyes making a slow, deliberate circle, staring into each of their faces, one at a time.
“If you don’t hear another thing today, hear me on this: When it comes to fentanyl, a dose the size of a few grains of salt will kill you.
So, when someone offers you a pill and says ‘it’s just Xanax’ or ‘it’s just Adderall,’ they might actually believe that.
But unless they made it themselves in a lab, they don’t know what’s in it. And neither do you.”
Ben’s hand went up, small. “What if it’s from a friend?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Colin said gently. “They’re trusting the person they got it from, and so on, until you’re at the end of a chain built on hope and luck.
I don’t want the end of that chain to be you, on a bathroom floor, with your friends scared and not knowing what to do.
” Marissa flinched. Daniela reached over and grabbed her sister’s hand.
Colin softened his voice. “I’m not trying to scare you.
I’m trying to keep you alive. So, here’s what I want you to take away from this: if someone offers you drugs, it’s okay to say no.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Just say ‘no, thanks’ and walk away.”
“But what if they keep pushing?” Emilio asked, his voice rough. “What if they make you feel like a pussy for not doing it?”
“Then they’re not your friend,” Colin said flatly. “Anyone who pressures you into doing something that could kill you is not someone you need in your life. And if you’re worried about looking awkward or uncool, here are some lines you can use.”
He ticked them off on his fingers. “‘Nah, I’m good.’ ‘I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.’ ‘My mom drug tests me.’ ‘I’m on medication, and I can’t mix it with anything.’ Or my personal favorite: ‘I don’t feel like it.’ You don’t owe anyone one word more than that.”
Jamie snorted. “Yeah, but some people don’t take no for an answer.”
“You’re right,” Colin said. “So, if someone won’t back off, you leave.
You call a friend. You get out of that situation.
If you’re at a party and you feel unsafe, you call an adult you trust—parent, teacher, coach, whoever—and you get a ride home.
No questions asked. And if you’re in Virginia and you’re scared you’ll get in trouble for calling for help, you won’t.
We have Good Samaritan laws. If you call 911 because someone’s overdosing, you won’t be prosecuted. ”
Emma looked up. Just for a second, her eyes met Colin’s, and he saw something in them—fear, maybe, or recognition. Then she looked back down at her hands.
Colin’s chest tightened, but he kept talking.
“There’s one more thing: sometimes, the wrong people notice when you’re different or lonely.
Not always, but sometimes, dealers or predators look for kids who want to belong—who are just trying to feel okay.
They use that to pull you in. I want you to know: your need to be loved isn’t a weakness.
It’s human. But some people exploit it. Be careful who you trust.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
“So, if someone’s being really friendly, really interested in you, offering you free stuff—be suspicious. Ask yourself why. Because people who care about you don’t push drugs on you. They don’t use your vulnerability against you.”
Nate, who’d been sitting quietly, spoke up. “What if it’s too late? What if you’ve already tried something?”
Colin shook his head. “It’s never too late. If you’re okay, you got lucky—don’t test that luck. And if you’re using to cope with other stuff—depression, pain, all of it—please talk to one of us. Don’t go through it alone.”
He glanced at Joshua, who nodded. “You can grab any of us for a chat. At any time. We’re happy to talk with you alone. No ratting you out to parents OR schools. This is just us.”
From his chair on the sideline, Kyle spoke up: “And I want to add that you can call me at any time! Any time, day or night. I’ll hand out my business card at the end of today’s session, with my phone number on it.
If you need a ride, if you’re someplace that scares you, if you just want to talk, call me. I will be there for you.”
Colin smiled at him, nodding. “There you go. You’ve got your own personal counselor right here in Farmville.
And, one more thing,” he added. “If you’re with someone and they overdose—if they stop breathing, if they’re unresponsive, if their lips turn blue—you call 911 immediately.
You do not wait. You do not try to figure it out on your own.
You call, you tell them what happened, and you stay with that person until help arrives.
You might save their life. And I promise you, you won’t get in trouble for making that call. ”
The room was silent.