“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I thought I was helping.”
He kept drawing.
“You did help.”
“That isn’t what today looked like.”
He shrugged without lifting his eyes.
“That’s not your fault.”
Then he stopped moving the pencil.
The room went quiet.
“The bad part,” he said, “is that for a few hours I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“That people can take stuff back.”
His grandfather closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Then he reached for the chair parked by the door and tapped the frame with one knuckle.
“I can fix metal,” he said. “I can’t fix that.”
I got home late and called the student mobility office number Mason’s grandfather had mentioned.
I got a recorded message.
Then hold music.
Then another recorded message.
Then a woman who sounded exhausted in the honest way.
I explained everything.
She asked for case numbers.
I did not have them.
She asked for intake dates.
I did not know those either.
She asked if I was legal guardian.
I was not.
She said she was sorry, but without authorization she could only note a concern and route it to the regional queue.
Leave a Comment