He wrote:
JUDGES?
“I think so.”
He looked at me sharply.
I smiled sadly.
“Okay. That wasn’t convincing.”
His mouth almost twitched.
Almost.
“I’ve never met this judge.”
Alan wrote another line.
WHAT IF SHE ASKS ME.
“Then you can write.”
WHAT IF I CAN’T.
“Then you can nod.”
WHAT IF I FREEZE.
The pencil stopped.
I wanted desperately to say:
Then I’ll answer for you.
But I couldn’t.
This was his choice.
His voice.
Even if that voice never became sound.
So I said, “Then we wait.”
He looked at me.
“As long as it takes.”
He shook his head.
I frowned.
“What?”
He wrote:
THEY DON’T WAIT FOREVER.
I couldn’t argue with that.
He knew the system better than I did.
Alan had spent years being moved by calendars, hearings, reviews, placement decisions, and adult schedules.
He knew better than any fourteen-year-old should that time could decide where you lived.
I leaned forward.
“I’m going to tell you something, and I need you to believe me even if the court takes longer than we want.”
He stared.
“You are not going to lose me because you can’t perform on command.”
His eyes filled.
Alan almost never cried.
Not the way adults expected children to cry.
Pain in him usually went still instead of spilling out.
That made the shine in his eyes unbearable.
“If the hearing gets delayed, I’m still here.”
His breathing changed.
“If they need another report, I’m still here.”
One tear escaped down his cheek.
“If you freeze completely and stare at the judge for an hour, I am still here.”
His face twisted.
I nearly reached for him.
Stopped myself.
Then Alan did something he almost never did.
He crossed the space first.
He pressed his forehead against my shoulder.
My body went rigid with surprise.
Then I slowly put one arm around him.
Not tight.
Not trapping.
Just enough.
He shook once.
Then again.
No sound.
I closed my eyes.
“I’ve got you.”
He stayed there less than a minute.
But after he pulled away, my shoulder was wet.
Neither of us mentioned it.
The final hearing was scheduled for six weeks later.
As the date approached, Alan changed again.
Not calmer.
Different.
He started spending longer periods alone in his room with the door shut.
Sometimes I saw his fingers pressed against the front of his throat.
Once, while passing the bathroom, I found him staring into the mirror with his mouth slightly open.
When he saw me, he closed it immediately.
I kept walking.
I didn’t ask.
A few nights later, I woke around midnight and went downstairs for water.
As I passed his bedroom, I heard something.
I stopped.
At first, I thought it was the bed frame creaking.
Then it came again.
A strained sound.
Low.
Broken.
Barely more than breath.
