Page 20 of Tiny's Testament
Nadia’s leaning against her car at the curb, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, like she’s been there forever. She straightens when she sees me. She doesn’t say anything right away. She just opens the passenger door and waits.
I climb in, shut the door, and wait. I sit here for a long moment, hands folded in my lap, trying to remember how to breathe without hurting. Nadia turns the engine on but doesn’t pull away.
“You want quiet,” she says, “or distraction?”
“Quiet,” I manage.
She nods silently, accompanied only by the engine's low hum and the steady presence of someone who stays still, with no music or questions.
We sit here longer than necessary. When I finally nod, Nadia pulls into traffic, driving like she knows sudden movements might break me.
The ride back blurs at the edges. My thoughts tangle, unravel, and tangle again. At a red light, Nadia reaches over and presses the coffee cup into my hands.
“Hold this,” she says. “It’s hot.” The weight of it grounds me. Heat presses against my palms. Proof I’m still here.
Back at the compound, Nadia parks and turns to me. “Text me if it gets loud again,” she says. “Or don’t. I’ll check on you anyway.”
I huff out something that might be a laugh.
Once I make it into my room, the quiet finally settles. The journal Nadia gave me sits on the desk, exactly where I left it. Patient. Unforgiving.
I sit slowly, like rushing might undo what little calm I’ve managed to stitch together. I open to a blank page and start writing:
Journal Entry - Month 7 After Lattimer
Therapy today ripped everything open again. Dr. Chen asked me about Josiah, about the motel room, about the moment Tiny cut the chains. I told her the parts I could stand to say out loud. The kidnapping. The fear. The way we learned to disappear inside ourselves just to survive.
I didn't tell her about the smell. How mildew and fear have a specific scent that I can still taste when I close my eyes. I didn't tell her about the sound of Exleigh crying through the wall, or how Nadia whispered strategies for staying alive while we huddled in the dark.
I didn't tell her that sometimes, late at night, I still hear Josiah's footsteps on the floorboards.
Dr. Chen says anger is normal. That wanting revenge is part of the grieving process. But she doesn't understand. It's not just anger. It's a black hole inside my chest that swallows everything good and spits out poison. When Josiah died, I felt nothing. Just a hollow ache where relief should have been. Because his death didn't undo what he did. Didn't give us back the weeks we lost. Didn't erase the scars, and Lattimer is still out there. Still breathing. Still plotting. That's the part that keeps me up at night.
Tiny asked me once why I paint. I told him it helps me process. That's only half true.
I paint because when I hold a brush, my hands remember they can create rather than just survive. When I mix colors, I'm in control of something, even if it's only the shade of blue.
I set down the pen, leaving the journal open on the desk.
Later, Tiny knocks softly on my door and asks if I’m okay. I let him in.
He doesn’t say much at first. He just sits beside me as the room settles around us, his presence filling the quiet without demanding anything of it. When he notices the journal open onthe desk, he asks if he can read it, and I nod before I talk myself out of it.
He takes his time, his thumb brushing the edge of the page as he moves down each line. When he finally looks up at me, there’s something unguarded in his eyes that makes my throat tighten.
“You’re the bravest person I know,” he says, not dramatic, not loud, just steady.
I don’t argue.
I let the words sit between us, warm, fragile, and unfamiliar. And for tonight, I allow myself to believe them.
5
TINY
Sleep is a luxury I don’t indulge in anymore, especially not since Syvannah started screaming in her sleep again, the kind of screams that claw their way out of her chest after therapy and refuse to let either of us rest.
From the hallway outside her room, I catch the tail end of another nightmare, low whimpers threading through the dark, sheets rustling as she twists. Her breath comes in quick, fractured bursts before it finally steadies. I don’t go in. I can’t. The last time I did, she woke up terrified, wild-eyed and fighting until recognition cut through the panic, and that look nearly shattered me more than any road rash or bullet ever could.
