29. Jenna #2
I hand Esteban a black coffee and press a cup of chamomile tea into Helena’s trembling hands.
“Thank you, Jenna,” Helena murmurs, offering a fragile smile.
I load three more cups into a cardboard carrier and slip out the back door into the facility’s courtyard.
The afternoon sunshine is stark and bright.
Dustin and Hannah are sitting on a wooden bench beneath a sprawling oak tree.
Hannah’s mother stands a few yards away, her arms tightly crossed over her chest as she watches them with a heavy, conflicted expression.
I approach the bench, stepping into their line of sight before I speak.
“I brought mud water,” I say, holding out a steaming cup to Dustin.
He wrinkles his nose, his Mets cap pulled low over his red-rimmed eyes. “I hate coffee, Jenny. You know that.”
“It’s hot chocolate,” I say deadpan. “But if you’d rather maintain your outrage, I can drink it.”
A tiny, reluctant smile breaks through his misery. He takes the cup. “Thanks.”
I hand the second cup to Hannah. She takes it, wrapping both her hands around the warm cardboard. Her expressive eyes meet mine, and she frees one hand just long enough to sign thank you.
I shift the carrier to my hip and raise my free hand, tapping my fingers to my chin and pulling them down. You’re welcome. It’s a little stiff, lacking her grace, but it’s accurate.
A few feet away, Hannah’s mother shifts her weight. “You sign?” she asks, her voice catching with genuine surprise.
I turn to her, keeping my posture relaxed.
“We’re all learning. Hannah mentioned to Dustin that it was difficult for her to follow the cross-talk when she came to the house for Sunday dinners.
It’s too chaotic.” I offer the last cup in my carrier to her, and she takes it automatically.
“So, the family started a group chat. We learn a new sign or phrase every day. We’re not great at it yet, and Esteban tends to shout while he signs, which entirely misses the point. But we’re trying.”
Hannah’s mother stares at me, her coffee completely forgotten. She looks past my shoulder to where Dustin is currently blowing on Hannah’s hot chocolate to cool it down for her, completely oblivious to his audience.
“A group chat,” her mother repeats softly, the rigid line of her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.
“It’s pretty chaotic.” I pull my phone out and swipe open the screen. “But everyone in their family is taking part. Dustin is leading it. He’s pretty tough on anyone who doesn’t present their homework.”
The chat name is ridiculous: TALK TO HANNAH!!!!! with so many exclamation marks and hand emojis that they look like they’re trying to escape the screen.
Hannah’s mother takes the phone when I offer it.
She scrolls. “May I?”
I glance at the screen where her thumb hovers over a video. “Be my guest.”
She taps and the screen fills with Helena repeating the same phrase four times, getting progressively more frustrated.
The next video is Esteban signing like he’s addressing a stadium.
Then there’s Dominic in his office, sleeves rolled, watching Dustin’s video on one screen while correcting his own hands on another.
Then mine.
At Dominic’s kitchen counter. Him behind the phone, correcting my form until I tell him his is worse and he should focus on his own fingers.
Hannah’s mother’s face softens.
“You do this every day?” she asks quietly.
“Dusty sends a new lesson every morning. Dominic and I usually practice after dinner.”
Her thumb traces the edge of the phone once, slow.
“You have no idea how much this means,” she says. “People try to include Hannah, but they don’t include her. They expect her to keep up. To translate herself. To smile through things she didn’t catch.”
I glance at Hannah.
She’s signing to Dustin, completely absorbed in him.
Hannah’s mother hands the phone back to me, the screen going dark as her fingers release it. There’s a fragile, unspoken truce settling between us, built on the absurd foundation of our terrible sign language videos.
“Thank you for showing me that,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I say softly. “It’s about making sure she doesn’t have to work so hard just to exist in the room.”
Before either of us can say anything else, the heavy glass door to the administrative wing clicks open.
Dominic steps out into the bright afternoon sun.
His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his stance loose but commanding—the unmistakable posture of a man who just successfully negotiated a necessary deal.
He catches my eye and gives a single, sharp nod.
The security upgrade is secured.
“The director is ready for us back in the conference room,” Dominic announces quietly as he approaches our small circle.
At the words conference room, Dustin’s shoulders instantly hike up to his ears.
He sets the half-empty hot chocolate cup on the wooden bench, his hands retreating to his lap where they knot together in a white-knuckled grip.
Next to him, Hannah’s face tightens into a rigid mask of expected disappointment.
My heart aches for them. Bringing them back into that conference room right now serves absolutely no strategic purpose.
The adults are going to litigate boundaries, schedules, and facility rules.
Having Dustin and Hannah sit through another round of arguing will only trigger another emotional detonation.
“Actually,” I say, turning to face Dominic and Hannah’s mother. “If the discussion is primarily focused on the operational logistics of their care plans and the facility’s security upgrades, they don’t need to be in there for it.”
Hannah’s mother turns to me, her brow furrowing. “But—”
“I’ll stay out here with them,” I state.
It isn’t a suggestion. I shift my weight, my posture radiating absolute certainty.
“It’s a beautiful afternoon. They’ve already clearly expressed their feelings on the matter, and quite frankly, having them sit through the administrative fallout won’t benefit anyone.
Let them enjoy their hot chocolate. I’ll stay out here and keep them company. ”
Dominic doesn’t say a word, but the look he gives me is so intensely, fundamentally appreciative that my pulse stutters. He knows exactly what I’m doing—I’m volunteering to be the human shield so his brother doesn’t have to hear himself discussed as a danger again.
Hannah’s mother looks at the two of them on the bench. Dustin is nervously bouncing his knee, looking at the ground.
“You don’t mind?” she asks, the fight completely drained from her voice.
“I prefer the fresh air,” I lie smoothly. “Go. Sort out the logistics. We’ll be right here when you’re done.”
Dominic steps aside to let Hannah’s mother back inside. Before he follows, he closes the short distance between us, his large hand cupping my elbow.
“You’re a lifesaver, Pemberton,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
“Just executing practical care, Cruz,” I whisper back, keeping my eyes forward. “Go close the deal.”
He squeezes my arm once, a heavy, claiming weight, before turning back to the building. As the heavy door clicks shut, I walk over to the bench and sit on the edge, leaving a respectable professional distance between us.
Dustin peeks out from under the brim of his Mets cap. “Are they gonna break us up in there, Jenny?”
“No, Dustin,” I say, and for once, I don’t calculate the odds before I speak. “Dominic is in there. Nobody is breaking you up.”