I should correct it. Soften it. Turn it into a joke. Say I like all kids or I’m just being decent or Blue Rex won me over through legal precedent.
I do none of that.
“No,” I say again, quieter. “That part ain’t fake.”
August smiles.
Not big.
Not wild.
Just relieved.
That may be worse.
“Okay,” he says.
Then he goes back to the courthouse like he did not just shove a flag into my chest and claim territory.
I sit there on my living room floor while a five-year-old trusts me with no idea how dangerous that is.
I should be terrified.
I am.
My phone buzzes.
I grab it too fast.
Amelia: At the store. All good. Do you need anything?
Do you need anything?
I stare at the words.
People ask that all the time. Most don’t mean it. Amelia probably means practical things. Coffee. Motor oil. Bread. Something normal.
It still lands in a strange place.
No, I type.
Then delete it.
Then type: Coffee filters. Burned through mine. Literally.
A second later:
Amelia: How does a person literally burn coffee filters?
Me: Talent.
Amelia: Concerning.
Me: You asked what I needed.
The dots appear.
Disappear.