Chapter 21
We Don’t Take Chances
The next morning, the rec center still smelled faintly of coffee and lemon disinfectant. The folding chairs had been set back into their circle. Outside the windows, early light lay soft and gold across Onancock Creek.
It should have felt like the start of a good day.
Joshua was reviewing his notes at the edge of the circle when he sensed someone hovering behind him.
“Josh?”
He turned. Marilyn Foster stood near the doorway, one hand curled around her phone so tightly her knuckles were pale. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Can I have a minute?”
“Of course,” Joshua said quietly.
She didn’t sit. She paced once instead, then stopped.
“Randy said something during cleanup yesterday.” Her voice was controlled, almost too controlled. “It was offhand. Casual. But I can’t shake it.”
Joshua didn’t interrupt.
Marilyn drew in a breath. “He was stuffing used napkins into the laundry bag, and he said…” She hesitated.
“He said, ‘Sometimes it just feels like what’s the point, you know?’” She swallowed.
“And then he laughed. But it wasn’t a happy laugh.
It was bitter. Angry. He didn’t stop working while he said it,” she added. “Didn’t even look up.”
Silence settled between them.
Outside, a gull cried over the water.
Joshua nodded once. That line didn’t come out of nowhere. “Who was he talking to?”
“Just the group. Nobody reacted. It passed.” Her fingers tightened on the phone. “But I keep hearing it.”
Joshua’s voice stayed level. “Did he say anything else?”
“No.”
“Any history you’re aware of? Previous statements? Withdrawal? Isolation?”
She shook her head. “He’s been quieter the last two meetings. But that’s not unusual for him.”
Joshua sat in silence for a long moment, considering. Then he sighed. “We don’t ignore comments like that,” he told Marilyn. “But we also don’t assign meaning without context either.”
Marilyn exhaled, the smallest crack in her composure. “You think I’m overreacting?”
“I think you care,” Joshua replied. “That’s an asset, not a flaw.”
Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“I’ll check in with him,” Joshua continued. “Directly. Calmly. If there’s anything there, we’ll address it. If there isn’t, we’ll still make sure he feels supported.”
Marilyn nodded quickly. “The statistics on trans…” she began, then stopped.
Joshua knew the statistics. They both did.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Behind them, the rec center door opened.
Colin stepped in, baseball cap pushed back on his sandy hair, a coil of extension cord looped over his shoulder. “Trent says if we leave the speaker plugged in overnight, the raccoons will unionize,” he announced lightly.
Then he saw Marilyn’s face and his expression changed.
“What’s wrong?”
Marilyn looked at Joshua, as if asking permission and Joshua gave a slight nod.
She repeated the comment.
Colin didn’t move while she spoke. Not a flicker. Not a breath. But something in him went very still—not surprise. Recognition.
When she finished, he said, too quickly, “We won’t take chances.” It wasn’t a question.
Joshua felt it—the sharp edge beneath the words. “We’re not,” he replied evenly. “I’m going to talk with him.”
Colin’s jaw tightened. “This morning. Not later.”
“Yes.”
Marilyn looked between them, uncertainty flickering. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You did exactly what you should have,” Joshua said gently.
Colin nodded once. “You absolutely did.”
Marilyn seemed to steady at that. “I just… needed you to know.”
“You did the right thing,” Joshua said.
She hesitated, then stepped back and moved toward the entrance as the door opened, and a burst of teenage laughter spilled in.
Colin laid the extension cord on the table without speaking.
Joshua waited.
Finally, Colin repeated: “Sometimes it just feels like what’s the point.”
His voice was flat, as if testing the words.
Joshua stepped closer. “It’s not a declaration,” he said quietly. “It’s a flag. We won’t ignore it.”
Colin’s gaze lifted. There was no humor in his eyes.
“We don’t know yet what this is.”
“No,” Joshua agreed. “We don’t. Which is why I will have a chat with him.”
Silence again.
Then, lower:
“I can’t go through that again.” Colin’s voice was steady, but his hands trembled.
Joshua held his gaze and walked to his side, his movements slow and deliberate. “I know.”
Colin looked away first, toward the windows and the golden light washing over the creek. His words came out in a rush. “Yeah. You talk to him. I’ll stay out of it.”
Joshua touched his arm. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Honey… don’t do this to yourself.”
Colin’s eyes remained on the flowing waters of Onancock Creek. He gave no response, but covered Joshua’s hand with his own and nodded.
The room filled quickly that morning—louder than the day before. Randy came in with the others, but he didn’t join them right away. For a moment, he just stood there—like he wasn’t sure where he belonged—before taking a seat at the edge of the circle.
The notebooks Nate had handed out were tucked under arms, some already bent at the corners. Trent guided the teens through his morning routine—stretch, hold, breathe—his voice steady as he pointed out where anxiety settles and how to push it back out.
“Okay,” Nate said, clapping once as the teens reformed their circle. “Today we’re building something.”
Laughter mingled with teasing moans.
“Relax. Not a toolshed. A collage.”
He spread a stack of index cards across the center of the circle. “Write one sentence that feels true this week. Not forever. Just this week.”
Riley immediately began doodling instead.
Trent leaned against the wall and grinned. “He means legible words, Picasso.”
Laughter broke the edge.
Joshua moved easily among them, listening, nodding—then crouched beside Evan.
“Mind if we grab five minutes?” he asked quietly.
Evan shrugged. “Sure.”
They stepped just outside the open double doors, still visible from the circle but out of earshot.
Five minutes later, Evan returned looking thoughtful but steady.
Joshua moved next to Riley. Routine. Calm. Ordinary.
By the time he reached Randy, it didn’t draw attention.
“Walk with me?” Joshua asked.
Randy rolled his shoulders once and stood. “Sure.”
They stepped into the hallway, sunlight cutting across the polished floor.
“I’m checking in with everyone. Just having a quick chat.” Joshua said. “Yesterday, you said something during cleanup—I want to make sure I understand.”
Randy’s mouth twitched. “Marilyn flag it?”
“She cares,” Joshua said simply.
Randy sighed and shook his head. “I figured. I saw her face.” He lifted his head, and his eyes met Joshua’s. “It was just a bad moment. I was tired. That’s all.”
Joshua held his gaze.
“When you said, ‘what’s the point,’ were you talking about harming yourself?”
Direct. No drama. Face carefully neutral, eyes steady.
Randy blinked.
“No.” He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I just meant”—he paused for a fraction of a second—“school. People. Parents. The constant explaining.”
Joshua didn’t nod immediately.
“Have you ever felt like you didn’t want to be here?”
Randy met his eyes. Considered.
“I’m good.”
Joshua watched his breathing. His posture. His tone never altered. It was steady. But practiced.
“Okay,” Joshua said quietly. “If it starts feeling bigger than that, will you promise me that you’ll tell someone? Me? Marilyn? Anyone in that room. Doesn’t have to be a professional, a friend will do just fine.”
Randy gave a half-smile. “Yeah, I will.”
Joshua nodded. “It’s important you know—you don’t have to carry everything alone while you figure things out. Decisions don’t have to be made all at once. You can take your time. You can take years. Marilyn will still show up for you.”
“I’m fine,” Randy said again.
“Okay,” Joshua said quietly. “I hear you.”
A beat. “But let’s make sure you’ve got backup at home, too. I’d like to touch base with your parents—nothing formal or heavy, just keeping everyone connected.”
Randy shrugged. “Yeah… that’s fine.”
They chatted for a few minutes longer, then walked back to the room together, Randy a step ahead.
When Randy returned, Nate was standing in the center of the room, passing out another set of index cards. “I want you to finish this sentence: I wish people understood…”
Kendra waved her hand in the air. “Nate? Why index cards instead of our journals?”
“Because this one only needs a sentence. Expand on it in your journal if you feel like it needs more.”
Pens scratched. Chairs creaked.
Randy stared at his card.
Colin watched him.
Watched the hesitation. Watched the small exhale before the pen moved.
And for one sharp, unwelcome second, he was fourteen again—standing in a hallway that smelled like laundry detergent and stale grief, trying to remember the last thing his sister had said to him.
Trying to decide whether anyone had ever really heard her.
Or whether they’d all missed what mattered. Whether he’d missed what mattered.
His jaw tightened. Christ, Colin! His inner voice snapped. You were fourteen! You couldn’t have known what mattered!
Randy capped his pen, leaned back, and grinned, nudging Riley with his shoulder.
Alive. Present. Here.
Colin forced himself to breathe deeply.
After several minutes, Nate lifted his hand slightly.
“Okay,” he said gently. “Has everyone finished their sentence?”
Pens slowed. A few kids stared at their cards a moment longer before setting them down.
Nate held up a small cardboard box. “If you’re willing, fold the card once and drop it in here. No names.”
A few of them exchanged glances.
“Why?” Riley asked.
“Because sometimes the thing you think only you feel,” Nate said calmly, “turns out to be half the people in the room.”
That seemed to resonate. One by one, they walked over and dropped their cards into the box.
Randy hesitated the longest. Then he stood, folded the card once, and slipped it inside.