Page 110 of Cut Off
This is how you win.
I nod, slow. The kind of nod that costs you something.
“Okay,” I say, voice like gravel. “No contact. Not unless it’s scheduled.”
Gardner’s pen moves, like I just passed the first loyalty test. “Good. Continue the anger management. I want the names of every witness in my inbox before the weekend. Ms. Hernandez will coordinate with the court on visitation. Don’t show up early. Don’t linger after.”
She stands. Just like that, meeting over.
“You’re not out of the game,” she says, dead even. “Not even close. But don’t fuck this up with heroics.”
I stand too, and my knees nearly buckle.
I look her in the eye. “Thank you.”
She nods and turns back to her notes. Dismissed.
Outside, the sky’s partly cloudy and windy—classic mid-April in Idaho. Gritty. Nothing to romanticize. I step into the wind, which snaps my brain clear.
Visitation schedule in hand. Ten days until the hearing.
The text from Eli is still open on my phone, like a wound that didn’t even have time to heal before someone decided to salt it.
I make it to the car, slide into the seat, and just—sit.
I don’t cry. I don’t punch the dash. I just breathe.
I stare at the message—five words, eight bullet holes.
I let the ache build, then file it where I keep every other bruise and break.
But not one more fuckup.
So I let the cold and the silence wrap around me until my head clears, until the next step clicks into place.
Rink time.
I start the engine and head for the one place I can still outskate my own bullshit. The one place nobody can take away from me, no matter how many times I fall apart.
Tonight, I’m going to skate until my lungs give out, until my legs don’t remember a thing about pride or pain or failure. I’m going to skate until eleven days becomes zero day.
I pull out of the lot, every muscle in me made new by anger, by hope, by the burn of knowing I might actually win this if I keep my damn head.
I’m going to do every single thing she told me to do.
I’m not giving Gwen Anders a single goddamn inch.
I’m bringing Eli home.
31
The Message
JONAH
Elementary school hallways and carpets smell like glue and are chock-full of artwork. Some PTA hero made a sign for the play: “BLASTMAN AND FRIENDS: A SUPER SMELLY ADVENTURE!” Underneath it, Eli and twelve other kids in capes are mugging for a group photo. Most of the adults here are hiding behind Starbucks cups and pretending to like each other.
I’m not supposed to check in with Eli at all. Supervised means supervised, and the system is clear—I don’t get the pre-show pep talk, I don’t get to help with his costume, and if I duck into the cast room and get caught, they’ll throw me out on my ass and hand Gwen the game ball. So I keep my head down. Cap low, collar up. Radar set to “don’t make a scene.”
