“I can’t go back,” he whispered, his voice cracking under his fear. “Don’t make me go back.”
Fuck. I’d screwed up. The words hit me like a blow, the sheer terror in his tone cutting through me.
“Just to your room,” I said, my hands firm but soothing on his shoulders, trying to ground him. “That’s all, Tyler. Just to your room.”
He was desperate and unsure. “You won’t make me go back to where they died?”
“You’ll never go back,” I promised, my voice steady despite my heart breaking for him. “I’ll make sure of it.”
“I can’t see where they died.”
“I won’t let it happen,” I said, the conviction in my words absolute. I tightened my hold on him, willing him to feel the truth in my promise. Whatever it took, I would protect him.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. I could feel his shallow breaths against my chest, his panic ebbing under the weight of my words. Tyler mumbled something, too quiet for me to catch, but his grip loosened enough for us to begin moving. Ididn’t let go of him as I guided him toward the door.
And all I could think about was the moment we met.
Five days.
That was how long it’d taken for him to speak to me.
I’d found Tyler sleeping rough near Humboldt Park, huddled under a thin blanket with other lost souls. The January cold had bitten my face as I’d approached, a bag of sandwiches in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other. He was in fatigues, his beard scruffy and patchy, his eyes sunken. At first, he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He hadn’t flinched, staring at the ground as if I wasn’t there. I’d crouched next to him and saw the scars twisting up one side of his face, trailing from below his eye to the corner of his mouth. They were still the red that lingered after the pain should have faded, and infected. The marks stood out on his pale skin—a constant reminder of whatever he’d been through. It hurt to see them, but I forced myself to meet his gaze when he glanced my way.
“Hey,” I said, crouching down to his level. “You doing okay?”
No response. I talked about his burns, left himsome creams, and checked the ones I could see, praying they didn’t go so far that they were sore and open under his clothes. That first day, he’d let me touch him, but then, he’d tensed, and I’d set the coffee down beside him, along with a sandwich, and moved on to the others. I’d stayed for a while, talking with the group and handing out what I had. Tyler never spoke, but he watched me out of the corner of his eye, wary and silent.
The next day, I’d gone back. And the next. For five straight days, I’d returned with food, coffee, medicine, and the same question: “Hey, you doing okay?”
On the fifth day, he finally answered.
“No,” he said, his voice hoarse.
I remember crouching closer to him, hoping to hear more. He was too young for the exhaustion and pain etched into his features. “How old are you?” I’d asked, not expecting an answer.
“Twenty-four,” he muttered, surprising me. “Nearly twenty-five.”
That hit me harder than I expected. He wasn’t a kid. He was a grown man, but those ten years between us felt like a gulf. I’d been through a lot by the time I hit twenty-five, but Tyler? He’d lived a lifetime of pain already. And yet, the way he satthere, hunched in on himself, he still seemed so young, so raw.
He said nothing else that day, but it was a start. I kept showing up, talking to him, and sitting with him until the walls he’d built around himself started to crack. Bit by bit, he seemed to listen.
And on a miraculous morning, when snow was still thick on the ground, he arrived at Guardian Hall, and I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t let him down. He was a broken, scared kid, and I’d be damned if I let the world hurt him anymore.
But I should have seen this break coming. I should have known he was desperate. The signs had been there all along—growing more obvious with each day, in the way he flinched at loud noises, avoided meeting anyone’s eyes, and held himself as if every part of him hurt. I should have known.
We’d talked a little—more than he’d spoken to Alex if the patient logs were accurate, which they’d be. He’d attended a couple of group therapy sessions with Alex but had refused to take one-on-one therapy so far.
I’d gotten him to smile a few times. He looked to me for help when he needed it, and I’d selfishly coveted that connection more than I could admit. Something in Tyler spoke to me, and I wanted to fixthings for him—because fixing others was something I could do, even if I hadn’t figured out how to fix myself. That connection, that drive to help him, felt like the only thing I was good for. And I wanted to hold him and make things right.
And I’d failed because I hadn’t seen what was happening.
But this wasn’t about me. Not about my failings.
This was about Tyler.
And now, I was in his room. He’d gone to the floor, curled into a tight ball, arms wrapped around his legs, and his head buried in them. He trembled with the force of his silence, each shudder tearing at me. The sight of him like this—so broken—twisted something deep in my chest.
I always had my emergency kit on me, a small backpack I never took off. Did I need to sedate him? My mind raced, flipping through the protocols Alex and I had worked so hard to implement for moments like this—safety first, always safety.
