Jack fills the silence. He starts talking about MMA practice, about some combination Griff showed him yesterday. I let his voice wash over me and finish my breakfast. Miles gets up without a word and carries his tray to the return. I watch him go. Steady, quiet, invisible. Sometimes I think Miles has the right idea about everything.
Class. Nursing track, room 4B, second floor of the academic block. I sit in the front row, same seat every day, notebook open, pen ready. The teacher, Mrs. Langford, is strict, and brilliant. No talking, no bullshit. She's tall, thin, glasses on a chain, and she doesn't smile unless you've earned it, which nobody ever has as far as I can tell.
Today it's anatomy review. She puts a diagram on the board, and I'm already labeling it in my notebook before she starts explaining. I like this. Muscles, bones, systems, everything connects, everything has a name and a function. I'm lucky to be in school at all. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t even deserve it. If I weren’t here, I wouldn’t even be able to attend community college, probably. The programs are paid by funding from people such as Harry’s parents: funded by donations. Families like Harry's, rich enough to pay their way out of real prison, who want their kids to leave here with a degree. Weirdly enough, the alumni association also helps. Some kids who make it after leaving and are super grateful for Aspire. I’m glad I benefit from it. And, if I make it, I’ll also donate.
Behind me, two kids are whispering. I hear the rustle of paper, a stifled laugh. I don't turn around. Mrs. Langford does.
"Anderson. Wan. Would you like to share with the class?"
Silence. Anderson is a skinny kid with a big nose, always fidgeting, been here six months and still hasn't figured out the basics. He shakes his head.
"Then perhaps you'd like to stand in the corner until the end of the session."
No argument. No protest. It’d be worse if he said anything. He’d probably be assigned hard labor instead. Anderson gets up, walks to the corner, faces the wall. Wan keeps his head down and doesn't look up for the rest of the hour. That's how it works here. You step out of line, you get corrected. Simple. Efficient. I don't understand why some kids can't grasp that. You keep your head down, you do the work, you earn your way forward. Every disruption is a choice: a choice to stay stuck.
I copy the diagram, label every muscle, and don't look at Anderson once.
After class, I head to my office. It's small, a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, a shelf with my textbooks and a few books Griff lent me, a window. The overhead light hums and flickers when it rains. But it's mine. For however long they allow me to be a leader, that’s it. The only private space in this entire facility, and I earned it. Three years of perfect conduct, three years of never missing a deadline, three years of keeping my mouth shut and doing the job, volunteering for extra work, being better than good, exceeding expectations.
I start work.
I fucking need my coffee, even though I've already had three cups.
Not the most responsible thing. But unlimited coffee is a leader's privilege, and Jack, at least, would kill for it. The rest of the kids get one cup a day, at breakfast, if they're lucky.
I'm halfway through memorizing my notes when I hear footsteps. My body locks up before my brain catches on: shoulders tight, jaw clenched, ears tracking the sound. Stupid. It's just a hallway. But you learn to listen to footsteps when you've had enough time to be scared growing up. I push it down, steady myself, and after the knock, someone enters without waiting. Paolo. Twenty-five, dark skin, big eyes, permanently bored. He tosses a folder on my desk, gives half a smile, and leaves.
I stare at the folder. So. He's coming. Maybe already here.
I slip a strip of paper in my book as a marker and close it slowly on purpose, drag it out. Then I flip the folder open.
Student Assigned: Liam Marsal.
School performance: nil. Significant disciplinary interventions. Last attended in-person sophomore year. History of truancy and theft. Underage DUI. Prior admissions to two inpatient youth psych units. Additional: possible gang affiliation. Moderate to severe recidivism risk.
I roll my eyes. Fucking great.
His mugshot, though. I flip past it. Then flip back.
He's got this look in his eyes, even with his mouth relaxed. Like he's been told not to smile but can't help it. Blue eyes, black hair, tattoos all over his neck. Trouble incarnate. But… damn it.
I close the folder. Doesn't matter. I have a goal: graduate with honors, get out, have a life. I'm doing well… great grades, staff trust me, no issues. I don't need to think about some kid's face.
My mouth goes dry anyway. Another mentee. Endless meetings with Griff, thirty extra hours of admin, monitoring another unfixable lunatic. My last mentee set off two fire alarms in three days and got the whole unit locked down. I lost three weeks of privileges because of that little shit. Trashed his ass for it, but it didn't fix him. Violence rarely does. I just like making idiots pay when theystand in my way.
One more note at the bottom. Griff's handwriting:"Please meet me in my office after you get this, so we can go collect the kid."
Deep breath.
I don't want another mentee. They're always the same: reckless, no regard for anything, ready to destroy your record without a second thought. I could be prepping for clinicals, training, sleeping, reading. Instead, I'll spend my foreseeable future babysitting a criminal brat. But it's the deal. The whole reason leaders exist, the whole reason I get the privileges.
Doesn't stop it from sucking.
I leave my office, round the corner, linoleum squeaking, take the stairwell two at a time. Burns off the nerves. There's a smell from the canteen, beans or something. My stomach growls. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend this is a hospital or a run-down hotel instead of a facility for kids sick in their heads.
I'm being dramatic. Most kids keep to themselves, too scared or uninterested to cause trouble. I hope Liam's one of those. But I remember the photo, that look in his eyes, and I know he's not.
I think of Parker. My worst mentee. Fucked in the head, not in a workable way. They transferred him to a psych ward after he tried to hurt himself. Before that, we were in the vegetable patch, and he spotted a rabbit. Caught it and tried to kill it, just for fun. If I hadn't intervened, he'd have smashed its head with his hand. When I screamed at him to let go, he laughed, psycho laugh, trying to freak me out. Didn't work. Made me hate him ten times more.
