My friend Madison Graham was a great person. She was kind and caring, and always wanted the best for herself and everyone around her. Madison and I had been friends for years. We connected over our shared experiences: We both had been at Long Creek and at Day One in Hollis, which is residential housing for juveniles that promotes recovery. We had the same counselors while we were there, and shared many of the same issues.

In February 2019, I was at a very low point in my life. I was more depressed than I had ever been. When I was that depressed, I was afraid of being alone. Madison was well aware of my incessant fear of being left alone. One night, when I really needed to be with someone, she came to be with me. It was around 2 a.m. and snowing fiercely. I told Madison that she was more than welcome to stay the night, and that I would bring her back to the Portland area as soon as the snow stopped later that morning. She was being the best friend that she always had been, catering to my need for connection while I was at an extreme low.

I occasionally used drugs, trying anything to curb my dreadful depression. When Madison came over, I had been using alcohol, Xanax and heroin-fentanyl. Because I only occasionally used drugs, I didn’t think I ever needed Narcan. Madison was in active use at the time. She had used a very small amount of heroin-fentanyl that she had brought with her to my house, so that she wouldn’t be sick and could sleep. Immediately after Madison took her last “bump” of heroin-fentanyl, she told me that she was going to lie down and rest her eyes. But she assured me that she wouldn’t fall asleep, being understanding of my fear of being alone, especially while depressed. Those were the last words that Madison spoke to me.

I ended up nodding out on my desk. I woke up hearing the most terrifying sound that I had ever heard in my life: the sound of someone taking their last breaths. I immediately started performing CPR (at the time, I was certified in basic first aid and CPR), to no avail. My first instinct should have been to call 911, but I knew people who had gotten into trouble for being in situations like this, getting blamed for someone passing away. I had an active probation warrant for my arrest because of failing to report on time. I knew that if I called emergency services, the police were sure to come as well and arrest me, likely charging me with the death of one of my best friends.

After moments of indecision, I knew something had to be done. I told my mother to call 911 and told her, my little brother and my little sister that I was so sorry, and I ran. I ended up getting arrested several days later, on Feb. 16, 2019, for my probation warrant and served my 322-day sentence in Cumberland County Jail. Little did I know the Maine Drug Enforcement Agency had been building a case on me for Madison’s death the whole time I was in jail.

The last day of my jail sentence, at 5:43 a.m,, the MDEA put a warrant out for my arrest for the death of my friend. They set my bail at $25,000 initially, only to raise it to $50,000 the following Tuesday. I had some heroin-fentanyl in my safe at my mother’s house, and because Madison’s overdose was from heroin-fentanyl, that was enough grounds for the state to convict me of aggravated furnishing. I received a four-year prison sentence for the passing of my friend, and I have been incarcerated since Feb. 16, 2019.

I hold more regret and guilt in my heart than anyone could ever place upon me through a prison sentence. The fact that I was too scared to make the call because I feared a felony conviction is beyond wrong. I lost one of my best friends right in front of me, and hesitated for just moments too long. No one should ever be too scared to call for help in what is, in many cases, the most terrifying and vulnerable moment in someone’s life.

That’s why I’m asking lawmakers to support L.D. 1862, to expand Maine’s Good Samaritan law, so others will not hesitate to call 911 when their friends are in crisis.