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Be Happy, part two

September 28, 2010

     After sending the message to Ms. Wicker was finished, Birch resumed her conversation with Harold.  “How are you classes?”
    “I like them a lot.”  Harold said, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could.  He knew he was in trouble and it was getting worse.
    “That’s good.  What do you think of your classmates?”
     “They’re all nice and I love every one of them.”
     “What about Emily?”
     “I love her too.”  He gushed.
     “Then why didn’t you like being kissed by her.”  Ms. Birch steepled her fingers in front of her and peered at Harold.
     “I don’t know.”  Harold admitted, “I just didn’t want to be kissed.”
     Before they could go any further, Ms. Wicker arrived.  Ms. Wicker was a kindly looking elderly woman who wore glasses because she believed they softened her looks and for no other reason.  Her clothing was soft blues and she wore a worn sweater because it made her less threatening to the family’s she was assigned to.  She was proud of her profession and how well they protected every child.  “Hello Harold, hello Principal.”
     “Hello Ms. Wicker.”  Harold was too scared to smile.
     “What’s the difficulty?”  Ms. Wicker asked Birch.
     “Harold’s teacher has noted that his behavior is reverting to his genotype.  He’s an introvert with several withholding markers coupled with a high level of aggression.”
     “Has he been taking his medication?”
     “So he says.”
     Ms. Wicker produced a small cup.  “Harold, I’d like you to provide me with a urine sample, can you do that?”
     Caught.  Harold felt like running, but there was nowhere to go.  “Yes Ms. Wicker.”  He went to the bathroom with Ms. Wicker and filled the cup while she watched smiling.  When he was finished, he handed it to Ms. Wicker. 
     The social worker scanned it with her hand-held computer.  It took only a moment to get the results. “Harold, you haven’t bee taking your meds.”
     “Yes I have.” He protested.
     Ms. Wicker glanced at the principle.  “We’ll need to take him to the hospital then its time for a home visit.”
     “No.”  Harold protested.  “I don’t need to go to the hospital.  I’ll take my meds.  I promise I’ll be good.”
     Wicker gave what she believed was her sweetest smile, “I know you will be eventually, but you have to rebuild our trust and that takes time after you lie, actions have consequences you know.”
     Harold cried as they took him to the car and drove exactly the speed limit down the wide, tree-lined streets to the gleaming hospital.  At the facility, a happy physician administered an intramuscular injection of his medication that would last three months.  A warm glow spread through Harold’s body.  His fear and anger faded away, replaced with a peaceful contentment. 
     “Feeling better Harold?”
     “Yes, Ms. Wicker.”  Harold’s smile was no longer forced.

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