By the end of the meeting, he’s got a sign-up sheet three pages long. Jennings claps like a seal, declaring this her “favorite committee meeting ever.”
I wait.
Let the crowd thin out. Let the applause die down.
Then I grab him by the elbow and march him into the nearest supply closet.
“What. The actual. Hell.”
He smiles, leaning against a stack of foam math blocks like he’s posing for a noir film. “Is this about the bloodroot stew? I can bring a non-lethal version.”
“Don’t play coy, Jav. Why are you really here?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. All that smugness fades like steam off metal.
“You know why.”
I cross my arms. My heart’s thundering, but I keep my voice low. “You want to play teacher, fine. You want to earn some goodwill, great. But Ben? He’s not part of your redemption arc.”
His jaw tightens. “I never said he was. But I see him. I see how he lights up when he gets something right. How he watches the other kids to figure out how to fit in without trying too hard. I seeyouin him.”
I step back like he’s slapped me. “You have no idea what being a father means.”
“Then teach me.”
Silence.
It stretches long and thin between us.
“Please, Kairo,” he says. “Give me a chance. One week. Let me show you I can be more than what I was.”
I don’t know what to say.
So I don’t.
I walk out.
And leave him there, standing in the dark, surrounded by boxes of construction paper and the ghosts of who we used to be.
CHAPTER 12
JAV
“You know these things are going to give half the kids nightmares, right?”
Garkin’s voice is flat as he pokes at a particularly malformed plush alien, its three bulbous eyes stitched unevenly, giving it a permanently startled expression. The thing lets out a mechanical squeal when prodded—something between a dying warbler and a small engine trying to restart. I grin.
“Perfect. Teaches resilience.”
We’re neck-deep in the novelty aisle of a warehouse discount outlet tucked between a hover tire re-treading shack and a fried vat-slug food cart. The place smells like old helium balloons and melted glitter glue. Neon signs flicker overhead like they’re winking out Morse code in slow death spasms.
Garkin picks up a different plush toy—this one looks like a dismembered octopus in neon camouflage. “You sure we can’t just buy normal stuffed animals?”
“Normal’s subjective,” I say, flipping through bins of misfit toys. “These? These have character.”
He scoffs. “They’ve gottrauma, Jav.”
I grab a box of individually packaged glitter eggs that chirp “You’re special!” when thrown against a wall. Into the cart they go.
