On bus 37 to the public health service (GGD), I feel something under me as I sit down. I stand up to find a brand-new iPhone on my seat. It’s not really my type of phone, but it must be an expensive item for the young girl in the photo who appears when I touch the screen. No one around me resembles her: she probably got off the bus one or more stops before me. I could hand the phone to the bus driver, but it would likely end up at a lost-and-found, and I’ve had to wait days once to get my own lost phone back.

I can’t call the girl directly, and due to the lock screen, I can’t dial any recent numbers. I decide to wait until the phone rings and explain my situation to whoever calls. However, the phone doesn’t ring, even after I step off the bus and stand on the sidewalk outside the GGD. It’s almost time for me to use heroin at the MSU, and since I missed my morning slot, I can’t skip again.

I go through the usual procedure without complaint: passing through security, taking my methadone, stowing my belongings—including the iPhone—and waiting to be let in to smoke. After about half an hour, I smoke and head back outside. A police car drives by, and I consider giving the phone to them. But I worry that someone like me would get questioned heavily and might end up at the station. I decide to walk the other way, but I notice that I’m being followed by the police car. They pass me, then pull me over. Feeling uneasy, I immediately start explaining about the phone: that I found it on the bus, wanted to wait for a call, and that it was just my time slot to smoke. “That’s a bit late, isn’t it?” the officer responds. I repeat my explanation, but I’m still taken to the station. There, I’m searched and interrogated, allowed to call my lawyer, and then put in a cell. After about an hour, someone knocks on my cell, and I think I’ll be released, but it turns out to be my medication.

50 mg of oxazepam! Two 25 mg tablets! If I had asked for them, I would never have received them, but now that it looks like I’ll be spending the night at the station, I gladly take them. I haven’t been sleeping well lately, so I decide to make the most of it. After taking the tablets, I lie down, and after about an hour, when they kick in, someone knocks on my cell door again.

“Can I go?” I ask, but I can barely stand due to the oxazepam. I stagger home, struggling to walk. My lawyer asked me to call him when I was free, but for now, I can’t bear to see another phone.

Written down by Dennis Lahey