Chapter 2 Cole
I've faced a grizzly sow protecting her cubs.
I've been caught in a whiteout blizzard on the north ridge with nothing but a compass and sheer stubbornness to get me home.
I've extracted honey from a hive of furious bees after a bear raid, having to carefully move hive frames while a thousand tiny assassins debated whether to end me.
None of it, not for one single moment, prepared me for the terror of a Pine Ridge Elementary second-grade classroom on Mother's Day.
The air was a thick soup of sugary perfume and the cloying smell of glue.
Paper hearts dangled from the ceiling like cheerful little threats.
Every surface glittered. Glitter, I'd learned from Sarah's craft projects at home, was a biological hazard.
It never left. It multiplied. Scientists would find it in the ice cores a thousand years from now and wonder what catastrophe had befallen humanity.
The answer would be: second-grade craft projects.
Sarah's small hand was warm in mine, a grounding point. She was vibrating with excitement, practically bouncing in her pretty blue dress. Before I could stop her, she ran into the classroom, leaving me with a ‘Don’t move’.
"This is my Uncle Cole!" Her voice rang out across the hallway, bright with pride. "He's the best!"
The best. I wouldn't call myself that. Adequate, maybe, on a good day.
A stand-in.
A rough-cut guardian who knew more about treating a sprained ankle than braiding hair, more about reading weather patterns than understanding the social politics of six-year-old girls.
But her faith in me, that unwavering kid-logic that said I hung the moon simply because I was the one who showed up, it always lit me up and made me smile.
I looked at her teacher. My ability to speak instantly vanished.
I'd expected someone older. Sterner. A woman shaped like a schoolmarm from an old movie, with a ruler and a permanent frown and sensible shoes. Emma Reed was decidedly not that.
She was young, late twenties maybe, with dirty-blonde hair escaping a messy knot that somehow looked intentional.
Her smile was warm and genuine, the kind that reached her eyes and transformed her whole face.
But it was the eyes themselves that caught me and held on.
Warm hazel, bright with welcome, and beneath that brightness, a shadow.
A flicker of something heavy and familiar.
I knew that look intimately. I saw it in my own mirror some mornings, staring back at me like an accusation.
"It's wonderful to meet you." Her voice was warm, steady, like honey left in the sun. "I'm Emma Reed. Sarah’s teacher."
"Ma'am," I managed. One word.
Smooth, Cole. Real smooth.
She extended her hand. I contemplated before taking it, my rough palm swallowing her smaller one completely. Her grip was firm, confident, not the limp handshake I'd expected. There was glitter on her wrist and a smudge of purple marker on her thumb. Working hands, I thought. Hands that did things.
"Sarah talks about you all the time," Ms. Reed said with a warm smile. "The bees, especially. She's very proud of your honey."
Warmth spread across my chest, and I could feel a faint smile forming on my lips. "She's a good helper."
"The best helper," Sarah corrected, still beaming.
"The best," I agreed, my heart swelling with pride.
Ms. Reed laughed—a real laugh, surprised and warm, like she hadn't expected to make the sound. Something within me shifted at that laugh. "Well," She smiled down at Sarah. "Your seat is right by the window, Sarah. All set up and ready for you two."
"Come on, Uncle C!" Sarah grabbed my hand and pulled with surprising strength.
I followed, navigating between tiny chairs and even tinier humans with the care of a man crossing a minefield blindfolded.
Every step felt like a potential catastrophe.
I was too big for this room, too rough for these people, too much of everything for this pastel nightmare of construction paper and good intentions.
"Sit here, Uncle Cole." Sarah pointed to a chair that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. Or a cruel joke. Ms. Reed had offered me the seat when she showed us Sarah’s desk, but it looked so little and fragile, I declined.
"I'll stand." I insisted.
"You have to sit. Everyone's sitting. It's the rules." Saying no to Sarah was going to be tougher than saying no to her teacher.
"There are rules about sitting?"
"There's rules for everything." She gave me a look that suggested I should know this by now.
I glanced around. She was right. Every adult in the room had folded themselves into child-sized furniture, their knees jutting at absurd angles, their dignity quietly surrendering.
A man at the next table, regular-sized, wearing khakis and a polo shirt like a uniform, caught my eye and shrugged in weary solidarity.
"Welcome to the thunder dome," he said dryly. "I'm Steve. This is my third one of these. It doesn't get easier."
"Feels like it." I lowered myself into the chair with extreme caution. Something creaked ominously beneath me. I held very, very still, waiting for collapse.
"Don't worry," Steve said. "They're sturdier than they look. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"I've only seen one break. My butt healed… eventually."
At least one of us kept a sense of humor. I decided not to ask any further.
"Okay, everyone!" Ms. Reed clapped her hands twice, commanding the room with easy authority.
The chatter died down instantly. "Today we're making flower bouquets or beautiful cards, or anything you feel inspired to do for someone special.
You'll find paper, scissors, and glue at your tables.
Get creative, have fun, and remember, there are no mistakes in art, only happy accidents! "
"What's a happy accident?" a boy at the next table asked, his hand shooting up after he'd already spoken.
"It's when something doesn't go as planned, but it turns out beautiful anyway," Ms. Reed explained patiently. "Like when you mix colors and get a new one you didn't expect. Or when you cut something crooked and it looks even better than if it were straight."
"My mom says I was a happy accident," the boy announced proudly.
The room went dead silent. His mother turned approximately seventeen shades of crimson. Steve snorted into his hand. I felt my own mouth twitch into a grin despite myself.
Ms. Reed didn't miss a beat. Her tender smile didn't waver.
"Well, that just means you're an extra special surprise, doesn't it? The best kinds of things in life are the ones we didn't plan for." She gestured broadly. "Now, let's get crafting, everyone! Creativity awaits!"
The moment broke into laughter and relieved chatter.
I watched Ms. Reed move through the chaos with something like awe.
She was calming a frustrated kid here, complimenting a mother's effort there, producing extra supplies from seemingly nowhere.
She created warmth and safety without appearing to try.
It was a kind of magic, an effortless competence.
The exact opposite of everything I knew how to do.
"Uncle C.?" Sarah tugged my sleeve. "We have to be fast. Everyone's already working."
Right. The craft. I stared at the materials spread before us like instruments of torture: construction paper in violent shades of pink and red, safety scissors designed for hands a third the size of mine, glue sticks and, God help me here, sequins.
Loose sequins. Who thought loose sequins were a good idea?
"What's the plan, kiddo?"
"We're making flowers." She said this like it was obvious. Like I should instinctively know what that meant.
"Okay. Flowers. How do we—"
"First, we cut petals." She held up a piece of pink paper. "Like this shape. See? Round on top, pointy on the bottom. Like a teardrop."
"Got it." I picked up the scissors with what I hoped was confidence. The plastic loops bit into my fingers immediately, absurdly small. I positioned the paper, lined up the blades, and squeezed.
The cut was jagged, uneven. More lightning bolt than petals. More crime scene than craft project.
Sarah tilted her head, studying my creation. "That's... interesting."
"Interesting bad or interesting good?"
"That's... um..." She tilted her head, studying it seriously. "Maybe it's like a really old leaf? Like from a really windy tree?"
Diplomatic. She'd learned that from somewhere, and it certainly wasn't me.
I tried again, determined. The paper buckled and tore with a sickening rip, coming apart in my hands like wet tissue. Across the room, I caught Ms. Reed glancing our way, her expression curious. Great. More witnesses to my spectacular incompetence.
"Sorry," I muttered; my apology came out automatically.
"It's okay, Uncle C." Sarah gently extracted the scissors from my grip with the patient care of someone handling a confused, oversized animal. "Maybe you should do the glue instead. Glue is important too."
The glue stick was next. I twisted the base and a glob of white paste oozed enthusiastically over my thumb and forefinger. Cold, sticky, utterly foreign. I wiped it hastily on my jeans, leaving a conspicuous smear.
"Uncle C." Sarah's voice carried a note of genuine distress. "Those are your good jeans."
I looked down at the damage. "Do I have good jeans?"
"The ones that don't have holes. You wore the special ones today."
She was right. These were, technically, my dress jeans. The ones I wore to town when I wanted to make an effort. Now decorated with a generous streak of Elmer's finest.
"They'll wash," I said, without conviction.
"Glue doesn't wash out. It just gets crunchy."
At the table beside us, Steve was helping his daughter arrange petals into something that actually resembled a flower. His wife leaned in, laughing at something he murmured. Their daughter beamed up at both of them, basking in their combined attention.