The parent doesn’t lower the phone. “I’m just documenting what I’m seeing. This is a public space.”
“It’s actually not,” Filepe says from behind me. His voice is flat. Terrifying. “This is private school property. And you’re filming a minor in distress without parental consent.”
“I have a sick kid here, too.” The parent gestures down the hall where another child is sitting in the nurse’s office doorway looking miserable. “I’m allowed to be here.”
True. But irrelevant.
Jag moves like he’s going to take the phone. I grab his arm.
“Don’t.” I hiss. “That’ll make it worse.”
When you have to choose between protecting a kid’s privacy or committing assault.
His jaw tightens but he stops.
“Block her view,” I instruct.
Jag positions himself directly in front of her phone’s camera.
“Hey!” the parent says, and tries to step around him, but Jag keeps shifting his body to obstructher view.
I hurry to Ben and crouch down a few feet away so I’m not crowding her.
“Hey sweetie.” My voice is gentle. “Are you okay? Is Frederick okay?”
She doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor tiles like they hold the meaning of life.
“Ben.” I inch closer. “Can you do the squeeze with me? One, two, three?”
Her hand twitches. Just slightly.
I reach out slowly. Take her hand. Squeeze three times.
One. Two. Three.
She squeezes back. Barely there, but she’s trying.
“Now breathe. Smell the cocoa.”
She inhales. Shaky. Desperate.
“Blow the steam.”
Exhale.
We do it three more times. By the third round, her shoulders have dropped maybe half an inch and she’s actually looking at me now instead of the floor.
“Ready to go?” I ask quietly.
She nods. But says: “Why are we leaving early? Everyone was looking at me.”
“Oh sweetie... it’s not your fault. Your daddy needs you today. We all need you.”
“Why, what’s happening?” she presses.
I hesitate. Then: “Some bad people are trying to hurt your daddy. We’re going home to protect him.”
She perks up. “We’re going to protect daddy?”
