We were at XLT and got a call that our friend Jen had been in a head-on collision. Candyce and I asked for prayers and quickly left the room. We hopped in the car and drove downtown to the hospital.

We didn’t say much on the twenty-minute drive. What do you say? Do you prepare for the worst? Do you assume she’s going to be just fine?

Her parents met us at the ER. They explained that Jen was driving through a neighborhood when a man came into her lane and they collided. They didn’t know if he was drunk or if he fell asleep because he jumped out of his car and ran away. Jen fell out of the car and collapsed next to the sidewalk. The airbag saved her from getting too messed up, but she was still beat up. We were all very thankful she’s okay.

Candyce went to see Jen and the nurse told me to wait in the hallway. Two nurses and a security guard were tending to a prisoner that was cuffed to a stretcher. He was covered in tattoos and wore striped clothes like you see in chain gangs. He tugged and bucked off the stretcher, determined to get free. I was hoping he’d get loose, or at least flip over and smash to the floor. I’d run in and pin him down as the prison guard yelled for help.

We must’ve been close to a prison, because they brought in another prisoner.; His hands and feet chained close together and the chains dragged on the dirty floor. He seemed familiar with the place, walking three steps ahead of the security guard. He looked through each door like he was a tourist looking for a bathroom. He seemed really excited to be at the hospital. He was the only one.

There is no place more pitiful than an ER in the ghetto. Even when you ignore the prisoners or patients with gunshot wounds, the place is hopeless. The walls were plastered with poster begging you to get tested for STDs. One poster was daring enough to show graphic photos of syphilis.

A half-dozen of us sat in the dirty chairs, staring up at a TV that was so snowy you couldn’t even tell what you were watching. It was almost midnight, and half of the people in the room were still wearing sunglasses. They were so still, I didn’t know if they were asleep or dead.

I wonder what Jesus would’ve done in the situation. The doctors and nurses were busy tending to the suffering, so I offered to play hacky sack with a young Mexican boy. While we kicked around, I asked him to explain his shirt that bragged about being a stoner. He was proud to tell me why he bought it, and went on to tell me about his other shirts back at home: “Bitch layoff” and “It’s not going to lick itself.”

After twenty minutes, I shared with him that drugs cause a lot of trouble, the least of which are killing your brain and going to jail. I pointed to the prisoners. He nodded his head like he was acknowledging the obvious. I didn’t say anything back, and we kept playing hacky sack.