36. Wes
WES
“There was a little thing at school today. In the cafeteria.”
Her voice is low, measured. She scrubs at a non-existent spot on her sleeve. I keep my hands moving, the soft cloth a buffer between us.
“What kind of thing?”
“Just kids. You know. Being dumb.” She forces a small, brittle laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nothing, really. I’m handling it.”
Classic backpedaling move.
I stop polishing. The reflection in the chrome is distorted, but I see the tight line of her jaw.
She calls it nothing, but the phrase hovers, hollow and wrong.
She won’t look at me. That’s how I know it’s something.
Anything she tries to shrink, to make small and manageable, is usually the one thing that needs to be blown wide open.
But I learned fast that pushing her only makes her build the walls higher.
So I just nod, once, and go back to the grille.
She gives a short, relieved sigh, thinking she’s sold it.
Later, Brody and I are on the floor with a box of old nozzle fittings. He likes the weight of them, the cold brass, the way the threads lock together with a satisfying click. He holds up a shut-off bale, turning it back and forth.
“Today, a boy moved my sandwich. It was supposed to be in a line with my tater tots.”
My hands pause over a gasket. I don’t look at him, just keep my focus on the pieces in front of me, giving him the space to talk.
“I put it back. The boys at the table laughed. One of them got chocolate milk everywhere.”
He says it with no heat. No anger. Just a simple report of an event, as if he’s cataloguing facts.
A happened, then B, then C. The sky is blue.
Water is wet. Boys laugh when you fix things they broke.
That flat, factual delivery lands a punch right in my gut, harder than any tear-filled story from Jordyn ever could.
It’s the quiet acceptance of it that twists something inside me. The casual cruelty of it all laid bare.
“Okay.” My voice comes out steady. Normal.
He twists the bale again. Click. He’s already moved on, back to the mechanics of the object in his hands. But I haven’t. Something in my chest settles, cold and hard as the brass he’s holding. A switch flips. A decision locks into place.
The sounds of the station—the distant drone of a compressor, the crackle of the dispatch radio, Tate laughing about something in the dayroom—all flatten into a low, insignificant hum.
The brass fitting in my hand feels heavy, cold.
A tool. I place it back into the box, aligning it perfectly with the others.
Then the next one. Systematic. Controlled.
Each piece clicks into place, a separate, distinct action.
The world narrows to this simple task. My breathing evens out.
The jittery energy that always buzzes under my skin doesn't flare into heat.
It sharpens. Freezes into something solid and useful.
This isn't anger. Anger is messy. This is a correction that needs to be made.
I don’t say a word to Tate. I don’t find Jordyn.
I just walk out of the bay, get in my truck, and drive.
The afternoon sun hangs low, casting long shadows across the quiet residential streets.
I pass the town square, the hardware store, the diner with its flickering neon sign.
Each landmark is just another object outside my window.
The school parking lot is almost empty. A custodian’s van sits near the back entrance.
I pull into a visitor spot right out front and kill the engine.
For a moment, I just sit in the silence, the steering wheel cool beneath my hands.
The building looks different after hours, its brick facade washed in the pale orange of the evening light.
Inside, the main hallway stretches out under buzzing fluorescent tubes, the polished floors reflecting the sterile glow.
The air smells of disinfectant and chalk dust. A woman with glasses perched on her head looks up from a desk cluttered with papers as I approach the main office.
Her eyes widen a fraction, taking in the station logo on my t-shirt. She offers a small, questioning smile.
“I need to see Principal Albright.”
“He’s with a parent. Can I take a message?”
“I’ll wait.” I lean on the doorframe, crossing my arms. The woman fidgets with a pen, her small smile gone. She doesn’t try to make conversation. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable for her. For me, it’s just quiet.
A few minutes later, the door to the inner office opens. Principal Albright, a woman with a tired suit and perfectly coiffed hair, ushers out a woman, her face set in a practiced, reassuring expression. Then she sees me. The expression falters.
“Mr. McCraw. Is there an issue with the fire inspection?”
“No.” I walk past her and into her office. It smells like stale coffee and paper. I turn, leaving her no choice but to follow and close the door. She stays behind her large, empty desk. I stay standing in the room.
“Today in the cafeteria, a few boys decided to mess with Brody Greer’s lunch. They moved his food. When he fixed it, they laughed at him. Your staff didn't notice. Or they didn't care.”
She clasps her hands on the desk blotter. “Mr. McCraw, I understand the concern, but altercations between students are something we handle internally. Sometimes boys will be…”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” My voice is flat. The air in the room chills a few degrees. “This isn’t about boys being boys. This is about a specific kid who processes things differently, being targeted in a place that’s supposed to be safe. It stops now. You handle it. Or I will.”
Albright’s professional mask hardens. She leans back in her leather chair, a clear shift in posture. This is her turf. She's the one with the authority here.
“I assure you, our anti-bullying policies are robust. I will review the incident with the lunch monitors tomorrow morning. If what you say is accurate, the students involved will be identified and their parents will be contacted. We can adjust aide supervision during Brody’s lunch period to ensure a staff member is in closer proximity. ”
She delivers the lines smoothly, by the book. She's promising action. Protocol. But her eyes don’t leave mine. She understands perfectly that this is not a negotiation. It’s a notification.
"See that you do. This is not over until I say it is."
I give her a single, sharp nod. I’ve heard what I need to hear. I turn and walk out, leaving her alone in his quiet office.
The hallway stretches out, the same sterile fluorescent glow casting everything in harsh relief. My footsteps echo off the polished floors, each one deliberate and measured. The woman at the front desk doesn't look up as I pass. Smart.
Outside, the evening air hits my face, cooler now that the sun has dropped behind the treeline.
I pull my keys from my pocket, the metal warm from my body heat.
The parking lot is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic on Main Street.
A few cars pass by, their headlights beginning to cut through the gathering dusk.
I climb into the truck and sit for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel.
The vinyl seat creaks under my weight. Through the windshield, I see the school's main entrance, the glass doors reflecting the parking lot lights that have just flickered on.
The building looks smaller now, less imposing.
Just brick and mortar. Just a place where people work, where decisions get made.
The engine turns over with a low rumble. I back out of the parking space, the tires crunching softly on the asphalt. At the stop sign at one edge of the lot, I pause. Left takes me back toward the station. Right leads to the residential streets where Jordyn and Brody live. I go left.
The radio crackles to life as I drive, dispatch running through routine traffic. A fender bender on Highway 9. A medical assist on Elm Street. The normal rhythm of a Tuesday evening. I reach over and turn the volume down until the voices become background noise.
My phone buzzes against the console. A text from Tate: Where'd you go?
I don't answer. Not yet. There's nothing to explain until something needs explaining. Right now, it's just a conversation that happened. A message that got delivered. A line that exists now where it didn't before.
The truck's headlights sweep across familiar landmarks as I make my way back through town.
The hardware store with its faded awning.
The diner where the neon sign flickers between "Open" and "Ope.
" The intersection where Main Street meets County Road 12.
Each one passes by the window like frames in a film reel, ordinary and unchanged.
At the station, the bay doors are open, spilling warm yellow light onto the concrete apron. I can see Tate's silhouette near the equipment lockers, probably inventorying something. Normal Tuesday night routine. Everything exactly as I left it twenty minutes ago.
I park in my usual spot and kill the engine. The sudden silence feels complete, final. I sit for another moment, watching Tate move around inside the bay. He hasn't noticed me yet. Soon he'll ask where I went. Soon I'll tell him. But not yet.