Page 10 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
She steps closer, resting her hands lightly on my shoulders. The contact is unexpected. Not forceful. Not claiming.
Just there.
“You deserve more than survival, Silas,” she says quietly. “You deserve a future that isn’t built around what you did at fourteen.”
My jaw tightens at that.Fourteen.It always circles back to that number.
I glance at Jake again.
“Why now?” I ask finally, my voice lower, heavier. “You’ve known what happened for years. Why walk in here today?”
Jake doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Because you turned eighteen this month,” he says. “After that, your record becomes harder to soften. Your options narrow. Doors close.”
There it is.
“And because,” he adds, his voice rougher now, “I didn’t realize how much of your father’s worst traits were isolation until it was too late. He shut everyone out. I let him. I won’t make that mistake again with you.”
Silence stretches between us.
Adrian shifts slightly on the bed, watching me like he’s afraid I’ll explode or collapse.
The Warden clears his throat quietly, trying to reclaim control of a conversation that no longer belongs to him.
“You’d be enrolled in a transitional program,” he murmurs. “Education. Counseling. It would reflect well.”
Reflect well.
Always about optics.
I look at the broken bed frame. The peeling walls. The barred window that filters light like we don’t deserve the full version of it.
Then I look back at them.
At Uncle Jake.
At Stephanie, whose hands are still resting on my shoulders like she’s anchoring something that hasn’t decided whether it wants to stay.
University. Adoption. A house somewhere near Spokehaven. A girl who came from somewhere like this and stayed.
My throat feels tight, but not from anger.
“You understand,” I say slowly, “that I’m not some redemption story. I’m not going to suddenly become grateful and well-adjusted.”
Jake nods once. “I don’t need you to be,” he replies.
And for the first time since they walked in, I can’t immediately find the flaw in what they’re offering.
I look down at Stephanie again, at the way her hands rest on my shoulders like she isn’t afraid I might shrug her off. There’s something steady in her face. Not pity. Not forced optimism. Just patience. It feels wrong in this room. Kindness in St. Augustine looks like a misplaced object, like someone set a glass sculpture in the middle of a demolition site and expected it to survive.
Her eyes don’t dart away from mine. They don’t harden when I stiffen under her touch.
“Do I have a choice?” I ask quietly.
The question isn’t loud, but it’s heavy. It settles into the cracks in the floorboards and hangs in the stale air. I’m not naïve. I know choices here are usually dressed-up ultimatums.
The Warden doesn’t hesitate.
