Appear again.
Amelia: Anything else?
I stare too long.
The honest answer is yes.
Come back.
I need you to come back.
I need to know you can.
I type: Cheese or the kid may mutiny.
She sends a laughing emoji.
I stare at that too.
I’m a grown man staring at a tiny digital face like it has offered me salvation.
This is humiliating.
August leans over. “Is Mama coming back?”
I lock the phone and set it face down.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
No.
“Yes.”
He nods and returns to court.
I don’t touch my bike.
I don’t follow.
I don’t call a prospect and ask for eyes on her. If they’re worth their salt, they already tailing her. I don’t text Wildcat for store camera access. I don’t get on Widowmaker and casually ride a loop that would be exactly the opposite of casual.
I stay.
It’s the hardest damn thing I do all day.
August and I build the courthouse until it becomes structurally offensive but emotionally important. We make a jail cell out of a shoebox, which feels a little on the nose, and August sentences a plastic goat to community service for eating the evidence.
By the time Amelia’s truck crunches back up the drive, my body reacts before my brain can pretend otherwise.
I stand.
Too fast.
August shoots to his feet. “Mama!”
He runs for the door, and I catch the back of his shirt before he can fling it open.