Chapter 14 #2
They set up quickly. Chairs in the familiar circle.
Tables along the wall with pamphlets and a sign-in sheet.
Joshua placed a basket of anonymous question cards near the front with a marker beside them.
Patricia had prepared a long table covered with Danish, doughnuts, bagels and cream cheese, a tray of muffins, and a couple of fruit platters—melon, grapes, strawberries—alongside yogurt cups and a bowl of granola.
Nate added a small stack of journals, pens, and printouts of writing prompts, arranging them with quiet care. “Creative journaling,” he said to no one in particular. “No rules. No grades. Just space.”
Colin kept his posture relaxed, but his eyes stayed busy. He noted the line of sight from the door. The window. The hallway. The second room—quiet, private, ready if Joshua needed it.
And then he saw her.
A teenage girl slipped in with Patricia—quiet, shoulders drawn in as if she didn’t want to take up air. She carried a tote bag and a small stack of papers. Not a participant’s hesitant entrance. A helper’s.
Beside her walked a woman in a light jacket, her expression composed, her hair pulled back in the kind of practical style that spoke of mornings made of routine and preparation.
The girl kept close to her mother. Not clingy. Just… aware.
Patricia introduced her casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “This is Hannah,” she said—first to Joshua, then to the group. “She’s joining us today. And this is her mom, Maren. She volunteered to be an extra set of hands. We’re grateful.”
Maren nodded once, polite. Hannah didn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes.
Something tightened in Colin—not fear exactly, but awareness. A thread pulling taut.
Joshua’s posture shifted almost imperceptibly.
Colin didn’t move toward them immediately. He kept things casual. Let Patricia talk. Let Nate welcome the early arrivals. Let Joshua greet the first few kids with that calm, open expression that never asked them to perform their identity for him.
And then the room began to fill—slowly, cautiously.
Not a crowd. Not a wave. But enough.
A couple of teenagers in hoodies. A young adult who looked like they’d driven in from somewhere else. A middle-aged woman who hesitated near the door as if she might bolt. Two high school kids who arrived separately and sat separately, pretending not to know each other.
Joshua’s face softened, the way it always did when the work became real.
He introduced Trent, who guided them through a simple grounding—slow breaths, steady posture, hands pressing lightly against their own arms or knees—showing them how to anchor themselves in their bodies when everything inside felt unsteady.
Colin watched from the edge of the room, something in his chest easing as Trent worked—quiet, steady, giving people a way to stand inside themselves without ever asking them to say a word.
“Okay,” Joshua said, once everyone had settled, his voice gentle and steady. “Thank you for coming. There’s no wrong way to be here. Nate, our resident artist and creative journalist, will pass out some index cards. We’ll be using them in a few minutes.”
He didn’t give a speech. He didn’t push. He started with simple rules: privacy, respect, no pressure to share, leave when you need to.
Then he asked one question—quiet, careful.
“What do you wish adults understood about you?” he asked. “Please write your answer on the card.”
At first, silence.
Then the question cards began to fill.
A teenager in the second row raised their hand. Their voice shook, but they spoke anyway.
And the room changed.
Not dramatically. Not like a miracle. But like something small and real turning in the right direction.
From the corner of his eye, Colin saw Hannah hovering near the table, passing out pens, collecting cards, moving like someone trying to be useful without being seen.
Maren stayed near Patricia, organizing the sign-in sheet, keeping the coffee and juice stations stocked, replacing snacks and chip bags as they disappeared, and handling logistics with practiced ease. She was a woman who’d learned how to manage rooms without drawing attention to herself.
Colin watched her once, and Maren’s gaze lifted briefly—just long enough to meet his.
Her eyes didn’t challenge.
They didn’t plead.
They simply held.
Colin waited until the first segment ended and participants drifted toward the juice, coffee, and wrapped sandwiches Patricia had provided, toward the table, toward the window to breathe.
He approached Maren then—open stance, no sharpness, no tension he didn’t need.
“Ms. Dalton?” he asked softly, as if confirming, not accusing.
Maren’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”
Colin nodded once. “I’m Colin Campbell-Abrams.”
“I know who you are,” she said, the words neutral, but there was a current under them he didn’t pretend not to notice.
Colin glanced toward the circle of chairs, toward Joshua speaking quietly with a kid whose hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
“This is good,” Colin said simply. “What you’re doing. Helping Patricia.”
Maren’s expression flickered—surprise, maybe. Or suspicion that kindness was a trick.
“It’s the library,” she said. “I’ve lived here my whole life. Patricia asked.”
“And Hannah?” Colin kept his voice gentle. “She seems good with people.”
Maren’s gaze shifted toward her daughter. Hannah had taken a seat and was laughing softly at something Nate said, the sound quick and startled—as if it had escaped her without permission.
“She wanted to come,” Maren said.
Colin nodded. “I’m glad she’s here.”
Maren’s eyes came back to him, sharper now. “Are you?”
Colin didn’t flinch. He didn’t harden. He just told the truth.
“I’m glad any kid who needs this has a way to get it,” he said. “That’s the whole point. That’s the whole reason we’re spending two weeks bouncing around in an uncomfortable bus and sleeping in motels instead of our own beds.”
Maren held his gaze for a long moment.
Then, slowly, the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction.
“Just please don’t make trouble for us,” she said quietly.
Colin kept his tone level. “We’re not here to make trouble. We’re here to make space. If trouble happens here, it’ll have to come to us.”
Maren’s eyes searched his face as if looking for a lie. She didn’t find one—or enough of one to justify pushing.
Finally, she nodded once. “Fine.”
Colin didn’t press. He didn’t try to turn the moment into understanding. He stepped back into the room.
Joshua’s eyes met his—questioning, measuring.
Colin gave him a small shrug.
Not settled.
But steady.
The day continued.
Joshua and Patricia led discussions that didn’t force anyone to name themselves before they were ready.
Nate took a seat among them instead of standing.
“You don’t have to write about today,” he said gently when his time came.
“You can write about a place you feel safe. Or something you wish people understood about you. Or nothing at all. Blank pages count.”
David talked to a kid with a UVA college brochure in their hand, and spoke with the calm certainty of someone who knew how to open doors that might otherwise have stayed shut.
At one point, Trent stepped outside to take a call, and Colin watched him through the window until he came back in, expression unchanged.
No shouting. No confrontation.
Just people showing up.
Near the end of the afternoon, Patricia clasped her hands the way she had the day before, but this time it didn’t look like she was bracing. It looked like she was holding something precious.
“This,” she said softly, addressing Joshua as they viewed the small room, “is exactly what I hoped for.”
Joshua smiled. “It’s a beginning,” he said. “That’s all we ever promise.”
As the last few attendees filtered out, Colin helped fold chairs, stack papers, and gather stray pens. Hannah lingered by the table until Maren called her name, and then she went quiet again, tucked back into herself like a coat pulled tight against the cold.
When the library doors finally closed and the room was empty, Patricia let out a breath that sounded like it came from somewhere deep.
“We did it,” she said, half-amazed.
Nate laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “We actually did.”
David’s hand rested on Nate’s back again, steady and proud.
Joshua’s gaze moved to Colin. “How do you feel?” he asked.
Colin looked around the room—at the chairs they’d filled, the cards they’d collected, the small evidence of courage that still seemed to hum in the air.
“Like it worked,” he said.
Joshua’s smile softened. “It did.”
Colin nodded, and for the first time since the town sign, he let himself hold the thought without bracing for what came next.
Wise had been careful.
But today, it had opened its hands. Maybe its heart would follow.
The motel room smelled faintly of soap and coffee grounds, the AC ticking softly as it caught up with the heat outside. Colin set his leftover dessert down on the small table and kicked off his shoes, rolling his shoulders as if only now remembering the weight he’d been carrying all day
Joshua watched him from the edge of the bed, both hands cupped around the tea they had grabbed in the lobby.
“You were good today,” Joshua said.
Colin glanced over, surprised. “We all were.”
Joshua smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He held his cup in both hands, the steam fogging his glasses for a moment before he pushed them up with his knuckle. “You know what I mean.”
Colin crossed the room and sat beside him, their knees brushing. “Okay,” he said gently. “Talk to me.”
Joshua hesitated—just long enough for Colin to feel it—then leaned in, resting his forehead against Colin’s shoulder.
“I’m not worried about Wise,” Joshua said. “Or the kids. Or even Earl, whenever he decides to make himself known.”
Colin’s arm came around him automatically. “Then what?”
Joshua exhaled. Slow. Careful. The way he breathed when he was choosing honesty over reassurance.
“I’m worried about you,” he said. “You’re back in rooms like this. Watching doors. Reading people. Carrying more than you let on.” He lifted his head slightly, enough to look at Colin’s face. “It hasn’t been that long, Colin. Since the fire.”
Colin didn’t look away.
“I know,” he said.
Joshua searched him. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not to them. Not to yourself.”
Colin’s thumb traced a small, absent circle against Joshua’s arm. “I’m not trying to be who I was,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be who I am now.”
Joshua’s mouth curved, soft but still uncertain. “And who’s that?”
Colin leaned in, brushing his forehead against Joshua’s. “Someone who knows when to step in,” he said. “And when to let go of the reins.”
Joshua let out a breath that sounded like relief more than agreement. “You let me lead today.”
“Well, that’s always my intention,” Colin murmured, and smiled when Joshua huffed a quiet laugh at the familiar line.
They sat like that for a moment, the room small and warm around them, the distant sound of a truck passing on the road outside.
Finally, Joshua shifted, sliding his hand up to Colin’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall there. “Promise me something,” he said.
“Anything.”
“If this ever starts costing you more than it gives… tell me.” He met Colin’s eyes, serious now. “I mean it, Colin.”
Colin bent and pressed a kiss to Joshua’s hair, lingering, inhaling the scent he loved. “I know you do,” he murmured finally. “And I won’t be silent about it, I promise.”
Joshua relaxed fully then, leaning into him, his weight familiar and grounding. “Today mattered,” he said softly.
Colin tightened his arm. “It did. To us as much as to them.”
Joshua smiled and relaxed against him, eyes closing as his shoulders softened. “Okay,” he murmured. “So now we can breathe.”
Colin rested his cheek against Joshua’s temple, holding him there until the day loosened its grip.
Wise could wait.
For now, this was enough.