Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Summer
The office was quiet, except for the low hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional rustling of papers as I flipped through the newest case files.
The smell of coffee lingered in the air, though my cup had already gone cold from neglect.
My desk was cluttered, a mess of sticky notes, paperwork, and reminders that never seemed to end.
I stretched my arms, rubbing at the tightness in my shoulders.
Another long day, another wave of cases, another reminder of why I had chosen this path.
I had been doing this for years now, but the weight of it never really disappeared.
Some days, I felt like I was making a difference.
Other days, it felt like trying to patch a sinking boat with tape.
But every once in a while, there were moments that made it all worth it—moments where a child found safety, found comfort, found hope. That was what kept me going.
The phone rang, pulling me from my thoughts. I picked it up without hesitation. "Summer Adkins speaking."
"Hey, Summer, it's Clara from child services," came the familiar voice on the other end.
I sat up straighter, recognizing the strain in her tone. "What’s going on?"
"We’ve got a new intake. A ten-year-old boy. His name’s Jake."
My heart clenched slightly. "What’s his situation?"
Clara sighed. "Removed from an abusive home last night. Cops had to intervene. No relatives to take him in. He hasn’t spoken since arriving."
I closed my eyes briefly, swallowing the familiar frustration that came with these cases. "Where is he now?"
"At the office with me. We’re figuring out placement, but he’s completely shut down. Thought you might have better luck."
"I’m on my way."
I grabbed my coat and headed out the door, my untouched coffee forgotten.
The child services office was cold, the kind of sterile environment that made everything feel detached, impersonal. I walked through the hall, nodding at the receptionist before reaching the small meeting room where Clara was waiting.
She offered a tired smile. "That was fast."
I shrugged. "You know me." I tilted my head toward the door. "He in there?"
Clara nodded. "Hasn't spoken. Won't eat. Just sits there."
I took a deep breath, then pushed the door open.
Jake sat curled up in a chair, his small frame swallowed by an oversized hoodie, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His dark hair hung over his face, his posture screaming one thing—don’t talk to me.
I didn't speak right away. Kids like Jake didn't need fake enthusiasm or forced reassurances. They needed patience. They needed to know that not everyone was going to demand something from them.
So instead of talking, I took a seat across from him, leaving plenty of space between us.
For a few moments, I just sat there, letting the quiet settle.
"You know," I said after a while, my voice light, "I once knew this boy who was really stubborn."
Jake didn't move.
"He was about your age. Didn't talk much either," I continued, leaning back casually. "He thought if he stayed quiet, if he pushed everyone away, no one could hurt him."
A small twitch of his fingers. Barely there, but I noticed.
I kept going. "But he was wrong. Because no matter how much he tried to shut people out, someone still showed up. Every day."
Silence.
I glanced at him, but his face remained hidden beneath his hood.
I didn’t push. Instead, I reached into my bag and pulled out a small snack pack of crackers, setting them on the table without a word. I didn’t offer them directly—just left them there, within reach.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then, slowly, Jake stretched out his arm and pulled them toward him.
I exhaled softly. A small step, but an important one.
An hour later, I sat across from one of the caseworkers as we went over Jake’s next steps.
"He’ll be transferred to a group home tonight," the caseworker said. "He came with nothing but the clothes he was wearing."
I frowned. "Nothing?"
She shook her head. "Not even a backpack."
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. No kid should have to start over with absolutely nothing.
I stood abruptly. "I’ll take care of it."
We stopped at a small department store on the way to the group home. I didn’t make a big deal out of it—I just walked with Jake through the aisles, acting like it was any other normal shopping trip.
"You should grab a few things," I told him, keeping my tone light. "Some clothes, stuff you like."
He hesitated before trailing behind me.
When we reached the toy section, he stopped in front of a display of stuffed animals, his fingers barely brushing over a small brown bear.
I watched him for a second. He didn’t pick it up, didn’t ask for it.
But when I said, "That’s a good choice," he froze slightly, then looked away like he hadn’t been thinking about it at all.
I grabbed it and tossed it into the cart. "Come on, let’s go."
He didn’t say anything, but as we walked toward the checkout, I noticed the way he lingered closer to the cart, eyes flicking toward the bear every few minutes.
That night, after dropping him off at the foster home, I stood outside his room, watching as he curled up on the small bed, hugging the stuffed bear like it was his lifeline.
I felt my throat tighten.
I had done my part, but it never felt like enough.
Later that night, back at home, I curled up on my couch, staring at my phone.
I wasn’t sure what had brought the thought into my mind—maybe it was Jake, or the way he reminded me of someone I used to know.
Before I even realized it, I had typed Malcolm Chambers into the search bar.
I stared at the name, my thumb hovering over the enter button.
Then I locked my phone and set it down.
Some things were better left in the past.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
But deep down, I wasn’t so sure.