37. Tate
TATE
The school’s main doors hiss open, and the smell of disinfectant and microwaved pizza hits me.
A few teachers glance up from the hallway, their expressions shifting from neutral to curious as I cross the polished floor.
I give a generic nod, my bunker gear replaced with a clean station polo.
Official business. Paperwork. That’s the story.
The principal’s office is already buzzing, the secretary, Ms Smith, tapping at her keyboard with a clipped rhythm.
“Mr. McCraw. Here for the updated fire safety plan?” Her voice is all business, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes.
“Just need to walk the new alarm placements with the custodian. Make sure our schematics match.” I lean back on the counter, casual. “Everything been quiet since the incident?”
“Things are back to normal.”
Normal. The word lands wrong. I watch a group of kids shuffle past the office, their voices a low murmur.
“How’s Brody Greer doing? Settling in okay?”
Ms. Smith's fingers pause on the keyboard. A beat. Just one. “We’re monitoring his social integration. He has aide support during his unstructured periods.”
The clinical language lingers in the air. Monitoring. Support. Not friendship. Not safety. I nod again, the motion feeling hollow. “Right. I’ll just find the custodian then.”
The recess bell shrieks through the building, a wave of noise that sends kids spilling out onto the blacktop. I find my excuse to check the exterior alarms on the gymnasium wall, positioning myself where I have a clear view of the yard.
It’s a storm of color and sound. Kids scream, a joyful, chaotic noise. A red kickball arcs high against the flat grey sky. Sneakers scrape and squeak across the pavement. In the midst of it all, a small island of stillness.
Brody stands near the chain-link fence that separates the school from the parking lot.
His back is to the chaos, his body rigid.
His hands are pressed flat against the seams of his jeans, knuckles white.
He isn’t rocking. He isn’t crying. He’s just…
gone. His eyes stare through the fence, locked on something a million miles away, his face a perfect, emotionless mask.
He’s enduring. Not participating. Not living.
Just weathering the storm until it passes.
I cross the blacktop with deliberate steps, keeping my pace steady and unhurried. The chaos swirls around me—kids shrieking, balls bouncing, teachers calling out instructions—but I filter it all into background noise. My focus narrows to the small figure pressed against the fence.
Brody doesn't turn when I approach. His shoulders are hunched forward, his entire body curved inward like he's trying to make himself smaller. The noise level out here would be overwhelming for anyone, but for him it's probably like standing inside a jet engine.
I stop about three feet away, close enough that he knows I'm here but far enough that I'm not invading his bubble. Then I lower myself down, settling cross-legged on the concrete beside him. Not in front of him. Not blocking his view. Just... present.
"Hey, bud." My voice cuts through the noise, pitched low and calm. The same tone I use when we're in the truck bay, when everything is controlled and predictable. "Little loud out here?"
His hands press harder against his jeans, fingers splaying wide. A tremor runs through his shoulders, but he doesn't move away from the fence. Doesn't acknowledge me yet. That's okay. I've got time.
The kickball smacks against the gymnasium wall behind us, followed by a burst of laughter that makes Brody flinch. I track the sound without turning my head, calculating distances and noise levels the way I would at a scene. Too much stimulus. Too many variables he can't control.
"You know what I do when the station gets too loud?" My voice is level, conversational. "When all the trucks are running and the radio's going and everyone's talking at once?"
His breathing is shallow, rapid. I can see his chest moving under his blue sweater—the soft one Jordyn always makes sure he wears on days when the world feels too sharp.
"I count things. Simple things. Like the number of windows on the truck. Or how many tools are hanging on the wall." I shift slightly, angling my body so I'm facing the same direction he is, looking through the fence at the parking lot beyond. "Want to try that with me?"
A group of kids thunders past, their voices pitched high with excitement. Brody's whole body goes rigid, and for a second I think he might bolt. But he stays planted, his small hands now gripping the fabric of his jeans.
"Three red cars in the parking lot," I say quietly, pointing through the chain link. "That Honda by the flagpole, the pickup truck near the dumpster, and the sedan by the front entrance. Can you see them?"
His head turns, just a fraction. Not toward me, but toward where I'm pointing. Progress.
"Now let's find the blue ones. Take your time. No rush." I settle back on my heels, patient as stone. "We've got all the time in the world, bud."
"Four blue cars," Brody says suddenly, his voice barely audible above the playground noise. His finger traces along the fence, pointing through the chain link. "The van by the tree. The truck with the dent. The small one with the sticker. And... and the one with the broken light."
I follow his gaze, counting along with him. Kid's got an eye for detail that would make a detective jealous. "Good catch on that broken tail light. I missed that one completely."
His shoulders drop half an inch. Not much, but enough. The curve of his spine softens just slightly, and his breathing evens out to something closer to normal. He's still pressed against the fence, still using it as his anchor, but the tremor in his hands has stopped.
"Now yellow ones?"
"Two," he answers without hesitation. "The bus and the car with the scratches."
We work through the colors systematically—white, black, silver. By the time we reach green, his death grip on his jeans has loosened. His voice grows steadier with each count, each successful identification grounding him a little more in the present moment.
Across the blacktop, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Jordyn emerges from the school's side entrance, her posture radiating the controlled tension of a mother who's been searching for her missing child. Her eyes sweep the chaos of the playground, and I watch the exact moment she spots us.
She stops. Doesn't rush over, doesn't call out. Just stops and watches.
Her hand rises to her chest, fingers pressing against the fabric of her work shirt. I can read her face from here—the relief at finding him, yes, but something else underneath. Something that resembles wonder.
Because Brody isn't melting down. He isn't running. He's sitting beside me on the concrete, pointing at cars and counting aloud, his voice growing stronger with each word.
"Green pickup by the mailbox," he says, and there's something almost conversational in his tone now. "It has mud on the tires."
"Probably been out on the back roads. Good for fishing, trucks like that."
He turns his head toward me. Not full eye contact, but close. "Do you fish?"
"Sometimes. When the water's calm and the fish are feeling cooperative." I lean back on my hands, casual. "You ever been fishing?"
He shakes his head, then looks back through the fence. "Mom says maybe someday. When we're more settled."
The recess bell rings again—the warning signal that means five minutes left.
Around us, kids start gravitating toward the doors, their energy shifting from chaotic play to reluctant compliance.
Brody's shoulders tense slightly at the sound, but he doesn't shut down.
Doesn't disappear behind that blank mask.
"Time to head back in soon," I tell him. "Think you're ready?"
He considers this seriously, the way he considers everything. "Will you walk with me to the door?"
"Course I will."
We stand together, Brody brushing dust from his jeans with careful, deliberate movements. As we cross the blacktop, Jordyn approaches from the side, her steps measured and quiet.
"Hey, bud," she says, her voice steady despite the tension I can see in her jaw. "How was recess?"
"Tate helped me count cars. There were seventeen total, but some were the same color so we had to organize them differently." He falls into step between us, his usual spot. Safe. Protected. "I like organizing things."
"I know you do." Her eyes meet mine over his head, and the gratitude there is sharp enough to cut. But underneath it, there's something else. Something that looks like recognition.
We reach the school doors, and Brody pauses. "Will you come back?"
"If you need me to." I crouch down so we're at eye level. "But I think you've got this figured out now. You know what to do when it gets too loud."
He nods once, decisive. Then he disappears through the doors with the stream of other kids, his blue sweater a small splash of color in the crowd.
Jordyn and I stand there for a moment, watching him go. The playground empties around us, leaving just the echo of voices and the distant hum of traffic.
"He's okay," I tell her finally, keeping my voice low and matter-of-fact. No dramatics. No overreaching promises. "And we've got him."
She turns to look at me then, really look, and I see her walls crack just enough to let something real through.
"We?"
"Yeah. We."
I check my watch and push back from the concrete, brushing dust from my jeans. The playground has emptied completely now, just a few scattered pieces of playground equipment and the faint echo of voices from inside the building.
"I should head back to the station. Shift change in twenty minutes, and Wes gets cranky when I'm late for briefing."
Jordyn nods, already shifting into that familiar protective stance—shoulders squared, eyes scanning for the next potential problem. "Thanks for... for sitting with him. I know you didn't have to?—"
"Stop." The word comes out gentler than I intended, but firm enough to cut through whatever self-deprecating speech she's building toward. "I wanted to."
She studies my face for a moment, looking for the catch, the angle, the hidden cost. It's automatic with her—this constant calculation of debt and obligation.
I've watched her do it with everyone from the school secretary to the grocery store clerk.
Like she's keeping a running tally of favors owed and waiting for the bill to come due.
But before she can respond, before she can start building those walls back up, Brody appears in the doorway. Not running, not dragging his feet. Just walking with that careful, measured pace he uses when he's processing something important.
"Mom, Mrs. Emerson says I did good on my math worksheet. All the problems were correct except one, but that's because I forgot to carry the number, not because I didn't understand the concept."
"That's great, bud." Jordyn's voice warms, and some of the tension bleeds out of her shoulders. "Carrying numbers is just practice. You'll get it."
Brody nods seriously, then turns his attention to me. "Are you leaving now?"
"Yeah, I need to get back to work. But I'm glad we got to count cars together."
He considers this, his head tilting slightly as he works through whatever internal process helps him navigate social interactions. I've seen this before with Eli—the careful weighing of options, the mental rehearsal before action.
Then, without warning, without the usual hesitation that precedes most of his movements, Brody steps forward. Not toward his mother, not toward the safety of the building behind him. Toward me.
He doesn't ask permission. Doesn't glance at Jordyn for approval or reassurance. He just moves into my space with the kind of unconscious trust that takes most kids years to develop, wrapping his arms around my waist in a quick, fierce hug.
The contact is brief—maybe three seconds—but it's solid. Real. His small body pressed against mine with complete confidence, like he knows without question that I'll catch him, hold him, keep him safe.
When he pulls back, his face is matter-of-fact, like hugging me is the most natural thing in the world.
"Will you count things with me again sometime?"
"Absolutely." My voice comes out rougher than I expected, and I have to clear my throat. "Anytime you need me to."
He nods once, satisfied, then turns back toward the school entrance. "Come on, Mom. I want to show you my worksheet before we go home."
But I'm not looking at Brody anymore. I'm looking at Jordyn, and the expression on her face stops me cold.
She's staring at the spot where her son just hugged me, her lips slightly parted, her eyes wide with something like shock. Not the bad kind—not alarm or fear. The kind of shock that comes from witnessing something you never expected to see.
"Jordyn?"
She blinks, refocusing on my face, and I watch her process what just happened. What it means.
"He doesn't..." She starts, then stops, her voice catching slightly. "He doesn't do that. With anyone. Ever."
The weight of those words settles between us. I think about Eli at that age, how long it took him to trust physical contact with anyone outside our immediate family. How carefully we had to build that bridge, one interaction at a time.
But Brody didn't hesitate. Didn't calculate or weigh the risks. He just moved toward comfort, toward safety, toward me.
"Mom?" Brody calls from the doorway, impatient now. "The worksheet?"
"Coming, bud." But she doesn't move immediately. She's still looking at me with that stunned expression, like she's seeing something she never thought possible.
"This isn't temporary," she says quietly, and it's not a question.
"No. It's not."