I glance back at him. “He’s okay.”
Derby nods and stays in the hall.
I go to the bed. August is rubbing his eyes with both fists, hair wild, dinosaur tucked under one arm.
“Mama?”
“I’m here.”
“Is the bad guy gone?”
I swallow. “For now.”
He processes that with the grim seriousness of a child who understands too much. Then he looks toward the door. “Is Derby there?”
“Yes.”
Derby’s voice comes from the hall. “Unfortunately.”
August sits up. “You said you’d get a new dinosaur.”
I sigh. “August.”
“What? He said.”
“I said maybe,” Derby calls.
August looks at me. “Maybe means probably no unless grown-ups feel bad.”
Derby appears in the doorway, leaning one shoulder against the frame but not crossing into the room. “Kid, you’re alarmingly educated in adult lies.”
“Jeremy says maybe when he means stop asking.”
The room goes cold.
Derby’s face goes still.
I feel my own expression break before I can stop it.
August doesn’t know what he has said. Not really. He only knows the rule of maybe. He doesn’t know he’s just handed the room another piece of our life.
Derby’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I ain’t Jeremy.”
August looks at him.
Simple. Curious. Waiting.
Derby scratches his jaw. “If I mean no, I’ll say no. If I say maybe, I mean maybe. If I say yes, I mean yes. And if I say I’m getting a dinosaur, I’m apparently getting a damn dinosaur.”
August smiles.
Wide.
Sleepy.
Beautiful.
For one second, he looks five instead of old from fear.