Chapter 13
Breathing Room
The bus pulled into Abingdon just after two in the afternoon, and Joshua leaned forward from his seat to peer through the windshield. “Oh, this is lovely,” he murmured.
The town’s historic district spread before them, brick buildings lining quiet streets, mountains rising in the distance.
“There’s the Barter,” Nate said, pointing to a historic brick building with colorful flags flying from its roofline and a distinctive green sign. “God, I’ve always wanted to see it in person.”
Trent glanced at the theater as he drove past. “You want to stop?”
“No, we can see it tomorrow. I just—” Nate pressed his hand against the window like a kid. “It’s beautiful.”
Colin consulted his phone. “Founded during the Depression. People paid admission with whatever they had. A chicken for a ticket.”
“Now that’s community theater,” Joshua said softly.
Trent turned down a side street, following the GPS to their lodging. “I have a good feeling about this town.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Nate warned, with a smile.
They made their way to the Martha Washington Inn, a restored Victorian hotel that Alex had insisted they book. “If you’re going to Abingdon,” he’d told them on the phone, “you have to stay at the Martha. It’s haunted and everything.”
“Haunted,” Colin had repeated flatly.
“In a good way!”
Now, pulling up to the grand white building with its tall columns and wraparound porches, even Colin had to admit it was impressive.
“Well,” Joshua said as they climbed out of the bus, “at least if ghosts show up, we’re all in the same hotel.”
“You afraid of ghosts, babe?” Colin teased, pulling their bags from the luggage compartment.
“I’m a sensible man who prefers his supernatural experiences to remain theoretical.”
“Unless you’re sharing the backseat of a ’67 Chevy with Dean Winchester,” Colin said with a wink and a snicker.
“Fictional Supernatural experiences don’t count. And please! I think he’s hot, but I’m not back-seating it with anyone but you!”
“Damn right you’re not,” Colin said, hugging him close.
Nate laughed and grabbed his duffel. “I want to meet a ghost. I could use one in my next play.”
“Of course you do,” Trent muttered.
Inside, the lobby was all polished wood and period furniture, elegant without being stuffy. A cheerful woman at the desk was able to check them in early and handed over keys.
“You’re in the Robert E. Lee suite,” she told them. “Two bedrooms, sitting area with sofa bed. Should be perfect for your group.”
“Did she say Robert E. Lee?” Joshua whispered as they headed for the elevator.
“Honey, we live in Virginia,” Colin reminded him with a nudge. “Get over it.”
Their suite was spacious and comfortable, with tall windows overlooking the town. Colin dropped their bags and stretched. “Two hours before we meet the coordinator. I vote we explore.”
“Ice cream first,” Nate announced. “I saw a shop across the street.”
“You’re twelve years old,” Trent told him, but he was already heading for the door.
The ice cream shop felt like it had been there forever—checkered floors, a long counter with spinning stools, and a teenager behind the register who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else.
They took their cones outside and sat on a bench in the town square, watching Abingdon move past them in a late afternoon drift of murmured voices and sunshine.
“It’s so quiet,” Nate said.
“That’s not a bad thing,” Trent replied.
“These kids need us too,” Joshua said. “They might not be in crisis the way Emma was. But they still need to know they’re not alone.”
“Every kid we reach matters,” Colin added. “Whether they’re in crisis or just looking for someone to hear them.”
The community center looked new—red brick, well-maintained, with a small playground visible around the side. Inside, they met Rebecca Chen, a woman in her early forties with short auburn hair and a Barter Theatre T-shirt.
“We’ve got about fifteen kids signed up for tomorrow,” Rebecca said, handing them a folder. “Most are regulars in our youth group. And the Barter wants Nate to speak to their youth theater program tomorrow afternoon. Around three?”
Nate’s head snapped up. “Really?”
“They heard you’re a playwright who’s been produced off-Broadway. They’d love to have you.”
Nate looked like he might cry. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Nate, that’s wonderful,” Joshua murmured, his voice soft but filled with pride. “I’m so happy for you.”
Colin nodded beside him, eyes warm. “You deserve it,” he said simply. “They’re lucky to have you.”
Joshua smiled while Colin’s hand came to rest on Nate’s shoulder, steady and grounding. “Off Broadway wasn’t a fluke,” he said quietly. “It was your beginning.”
They spent an hour setting up the multipurpose room—chairs in a circle, art supplies ready. Colin and Trent walked the perimeter, checking exits and sight lines. “Looks secure,” Colin said, and Trent nodded in agreement.
That evening, over barbecue, Colin’s phone buzzed with a text from Kyle: Emma’s mom filed the Title IX complaint. School’s already backpedaling. They want to meet next week. Thank you.
“That was fast,” Joshua said, reading over his shoulder.
“Turns out school admins move quickly when they’ve caught a prosecutor’s eye,” Colin said. “I called the school district office before we left Farmville. Seems like it got their attention.”
Trent nodded. “Glad to hear it, Colin.” He set down his fork. “How do you guys do this? Meet these kids, help them, then leave. How do you not carry all of that?”
“We do carry it,” Joshua said. “But if we break, we can’t help the kid waiting in the next town.”
“It’s the same with my pro bono work with disabled vets,” Trent said. “You stay in the moment. You can’t carry it. No one can.”
“And this is my husband teaching me about faith again,” Colin added with a soft smile.
“And Wise?” Trent asked. “How are you preparing?”
Colin’s jaw tightened. “Carefully.”
“We’ve got protocols,” Joshua said. “Police on standby. We know the risks.”
“I’m scared about Wise,” Nate admitted.
“Me too,” Joshua said.
“Good,” Colin said. “That fear will keep us sharp.”
The next morning, seventeen kids showed up—more than expected. Colin did a quick headcount: all teenagers. A mix of presentations—rainbow gear, plain T-shirts, one kid with a nonbinary pride flag pinned to their backpack.
Trent led them through twenty minutes of movement and breathing exercises, and Colin watched, impressed. Trent had a natural ease with the kids—he didn’t talk down to them—he led, and he made it fun.
The group session followed the Farmville patterns from Joshua’s Outreach Playbook—introductions, questions about coming out, dating, and religious families. The adults in the room answered honestly, pulling from their own experiences.
During lunch, Caleb—a seventeen-year-old soccer player—approached Colin. “You said you’re a prosecutor. What happens if someone beats up a gay kid? Do they actually get in trouble?”
Colin studied him. “Are we talking hypothetically, or did something happen?”
Caleb hesitated. “Hypothetically.”
“Then yes. Assault is a crime. If it’s motivated by sexual orientation, it can be prosecuted as a hate crime.”
“But what if the person who did it is popular?”
“Then it’s harder,” Colin admitted. “But not impossible. If there’s evidence—texts, social media posts—we can build a case.”
Caleb nodded slowly. “Thanks.”
“If something happened to you, or to someone you know, you can tell me,” Colin said gently. “I can help.”
“It’s fine,” Caleb said. “I was just curious.”
Colin made a mental note to tell Rebecca—and to keep an eye on Caleb.
After lunch, Nate ran his journaling workshop while preparing mentally for the Barter. At 2:45, he clapped his hands. “I’ve got to head to the theater. You’re all welcome to keep working here.”
“Can we come?” Maya asked. “To the Barter? To hear you speak?”
Within minutes, eight kids had decided to go.
Rebecca laughed. “I’ll walk them over. You focus on not hyperventilating.”
Nate looked at Trent, panic in his eyes. “Half our group is coming to watch.”
“Relax, you’re going to be great,” Trent said, squeezing his shoulder.
The Barter Theatre’s youth program met in a rehearsal space behind the main stage. The twenty teenagers sat waiting, along with the eight from the community center group.
Before they were led back to the rehearsal space, Nate slowed near the entrance to the main stage and gazed around.
The lobby smelled faintly of sawdust and old velvet. Framed production photos lined the walls—decades of actors frozen mid-gesture, mid-song, mid-breath. He stepped closer to one, recognizing a show he’d studied in graduate school. The lighting. The blocking. The confidence in the faces.
He ran his fingers lightly over the edge of the frame but didn’t quite touch the glass.
“This place,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Colin, beside him, tipped his head. “You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The ‘I can’t believe I’m here, but I’m pretending I absolutely belong here’ thing.”
Nate huffed a quiet laugh, but his gaze drifted upward toward the balcony. The house lights were dimmed, the stage empty except for a single ghost light standing at center stage.
A theatre that had survived wars, recessions, and changing audiences. A stage that had held thousands of stories.
And now he was about to step into one of its rooms and talk to kids who might still be trying to find theirs.
His throat tightened—not with nerves. With gratitude.
“Okay,” he said softly, squaring his shoulders. “Let’s go make something real.”
As they neared the stage, a woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair approached. “Nate? I’m Diane, artistic director of the youth program. Thank you so much for doing this.”
“I’m honored to be here,” Nate said, trying to keep his voice steady.
“We’ve got about forty-five minutes. I thought you could talk about your process, answer questions, maybe discuss what it takes to get a play produced.”