Code 3 for fever.
We are in a rather nice townhome. A 45-year-old father of two young boys is prone on the carpeted stairs, flailing around and not answering questions. He tries to hit me weakly. He then gets up and runs upstairs into his bedroom, locking it behind him, which is admittedly one of the stranger things that I’ve seen.
We get through the door.
“HEY! Stop fucking around! You need to answer some questions! NOW!”
He finally starts talking.
“I don’t want to go. I feel fine now.”
“If you don’t want to go, you need to answer my questions. And you need to explain yourself for your behavior on the stairs.”
I never thought, without children, I would ever have to make anyone explain himself.