A/N: Now who has the bright idea of doing this? Meeeeeeee. Who do I have to blame? Meeeeeeee.

I.

October 10, 1989

Looking straight ahead at the road, Shawn Spencer sits in the backseat of his father's patrol car with his best friend, Gus. Typically, his father does not pick them up from school, but because Gus' mother is busy with Joy's doctor appointment and Henry Spencer does not trust his son after the Great Ice Cream Fight Fiasco that happened two months ago at the local ice cream shop, Officer Spencer is slowly driving local through the suburban streets of Santa Barbara.

"Dad, we can walk from school. It is only a mile and a half away," whines Shawn, eyes staring at the back of his father's head.

"No, Shawn," replied the police officer, his eyes shielded by a pair of aviator sunglasses. He gently brakes the squad car before the crosswalk. "You and Gus really got yourself into trouble by starting that food fight."

"I didn't start it," protest Gus. "Shawn pulled me into it!"

"Did not!" He kicks Gus' shin.

"Ow!" Gus aims for Shawn's foot and hits his ankle instead.

Before Henry Spencer could roll his eyes in exasperation and say shut up to both of the troublemaking children, the police radio switches on with static. Through the speaker, Dispatch says, "All units, 10-16 at 1673 Holmes Avenue."

Henry curses under his breath. He grips the steering wheel and makes a hard fast right turn that would make any observing police officer turn their lights on to pull over the car. "I can't believe this!" He grabs the radio and hits a button. "This is Unit 432, copy."

He parks the patrol car across the street of the house in question and clicks off his seatbelt. Glaring at the boys in the back, he barks, "Stay here." He takes care to lock the patrol car behind him, his hand on his holster as he crosses the street.

"What's 10-16?" asks Gus.

Shawn, who has remembered all of the Santa Barbara police codes thanks to his father, answers, "Domestic violence." Both boys briefly glance at the arriving ambulance and the paramedics rushing out of the ambulance with a stretcher and running into the house.

"Hey, you still got that pencil?"

Shawn grins, pulling out a pencil pouch from his backpack. "I can't believe no one saw this." He yanks out a single tiny red pencil and hands it to Gus. "It is so funny."

"What is that?" cuts in Shawn's father, glare permanently etched into his eyes. Both boys jump in shock, and Gus quickly wraps the pencil into the fist of his hand. Henry pulls the back door open and reaches past Shawn. "Gus, give me that."

Gus unfolds his hand and passes the pencil.

Henry Spencer closely examine the red pencil, his eyes shocked and then furious. "Where did you get this?" His voice steadily carries an order, a question not meant to be ignored or unanswered. He shakes the pencil with no amusement.

The boys exchange a look, smiles facing completely.

Gus is the first to fess up to no one's surprise. "Red Ribbon Week."

The officer suddenly chokes on something in his throat. "What?" He turns to his son. "Shawn, can you tell me why does this pencil say, 'Do drugs,' on it?" He turns the pencil towards the boys so they can easily see the white-printed words of "Do Drugs" on the body of the tiny pencil about the length of a pinkie.

"Well, it used to say, 'Red Ribbon Week, Don't do drugs.' But Gus and I kept sharpening using it said that."

"I wasn't involved," protests Gus. "It was just you sharpening the pencil."

"Was not!"

The blonde officer waves the boys' argument and little comments away. The pencil disappears into his pocket. "Hold it. You are saying this is the Red Ribbon Week pencil?"

The two children nod slowly.

"I can't believe this." He sighs, straightening to look upwards at the sky in a desperate plea. He bends down and points to the ambulance. "Do either of you know what happened in there?"

"Someone hit their wife," guesses Gus.

Officer Spencer tilts his head in thought. "Not a bad guess, Gus. But full story here. Neighbors called when they heard a loud argument. I was first on the scene and found that the wife has overdosed on cocaine while the husband was passed out drunk on the couch. Her pulse was so weak I thought she was dead. Paramedics came to take her and her husband to the hospital. But the point is that drugs ruin people's lives."

The two boys exchange a look. Shawn's eyes widen. It's truly the first time his father actually elaborated on a crime scene, which is to say. . . This is a very big deal.

He shakes his head and points at the house, arm stretching out to gesture to the neighborhood in full. "Look at their house. Look at their neighbors. Do you see something different about them?"

"Their house is crap?"

"Yes, Shawn. But what else?"

Sitting taller and tapping into his analytical side, Shawn scans the street with a sharp, critical eye. The neighbors are out and watching the other police officers and some people in professional wear entering the house. A faded oak door leads the way into the house. They even have a bay window unlike other houses. But their house has tall, weaving grass stretching wildly into the sky. Their tree grows into the other neighbor's front yard, and the rose bushes point to random directions.

He finds the correct answer. "Their house used to be maintained. Like all the other perfect houses on the street."

"Exactly." Henry Spencer raises the pencil in front of their eyes. "One more thing. You probably don't know the significance of Red Ribbon Week. DEA stands for Drug Enforcement Agency, which is dedicated to stopping illegal drugs. A DEA agent died trying to stop people like you two from getting ahold of dangerous drugs and destroying your lives. This is not an event to make fun of."