You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Dillon says, a sad smile tightening his face. He looks tired and a little bit pale. I’m sure I don’t look much better.

“Missed you today,” I say.

“I’m here now.”

We hug. I’m pretty sure I hang on a few minutes longer than I should, but god knows, I’ve missed him. A few minutes a day is not enough. Never enough.

“Where’s your sister?” Dillon asks, looking around the kitchen.

“She and Griff have gone to Roanoke for a craft fair,” I say. “Tonight, and tomorrow night. I get to feed the goats and chickens while they’re gone. Earning my keep.”

I fucking hate barnyard work, but at least it keeps my mind off all the crap happening in my world.

“Have a seat,” I say. “You want beer or coffee?”

“Coffee.” Dillon says, drawing a chair back from the kitchen table. “I brought you something.”

“What’s that?”

He produces three neat envelopes, all in different colors with different decorations.

“Letters from the kids. CPS didn’t say they couldn’t write to you.”

I take the envelopes in hand, knowing instantly who each one is from. Joey’s is decorated with crudely drawn, but insightfully imagined flying monkeys, their wings rendered in the color of the rainbow. I always called him ‘my flying monkey’ when I picked him up from gymnastics class. It made him laugh.

Jordan’s is decorated with intricate geometrical designs done in a fine point, black pen. The angles and joints are perfectly rendered with mathematical precision. There’s not a bit of open space on the exterior of the envelope. Every inch is covered in pattern.

Chrissy’s is much more formal, very perfect. My name, ‘Mr. Jack Chance’ is written in a florid script in two different colors of felt tip pen, creating a three-dimensional effect. There are small flourishes in the script, but otherwise the envelope is left clean. The thing could pass as a wedding invitation if I didn’t know it was from a little girl who’s never even seen a real wedding invitation. She just knows, instinctively, what elegant looks like.

“What do they say?” I ask Dillon.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. They wrote what they wanted. I didn’t ask to see. They all took it pretty seriously though. They spent a lot of time writing to you. Even Joey. I think Chrissy might have helped him.”

I nod, breathing in, feeling the weight of their effort compress my heart. “Coffee first,” I say. “Then I’ll read them if you have time.”

“I’ve got time. Ginny’s there ‘til midnight if I need her to be.”

We sip coffee in silence as I open and begin reading the first letter. I’ve chosen Joey’s first. He writes,

“Dear Jack,

Please come home. I know you kant, but I want you too anyway. I love you and Jordan and Chrissy misses you too. Uncle Dillon kant make waffles. Or pancakes. He is sad. We are all sad. This is really, really REALLY important. I still has bad dreams. You make the dreams better. If you dont come home we will be sad.

I love you more than ice cream and waffles and kittens and pirates and flying monkeys.

~ Your friend Joey”

“Jesus,” I whisper under my breath, tears rising hard behind my eyes, making them hurt. “More than kittens. That’s a lot.”

They’re all back to having bad dreams. All that was over a month before we went on the cruise. It’s my fault. I’ve thrown these kids into retrograde. I’ve screwed everything up.

I slide the letter from Joey across the table to Dillon.

“Read that,” I say, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. “If you can do it without getting choked up, you’re a tough bastard.”

I open Jordan’s next.

“Jack,

You’re getting a raw deal. So are we. Typical. Here is the ONLY important thing. You rock! You gave that old BASTARD (yes, I mean that, sorry for the language) what he deserved. I wish I could have done it. I could tell you so many stories about him. He likes hurting people and animals. At his cabin, Grandpa laughed when Joey cried about the baby deer he shot in the head after he killed its mother. He is messed up in the head. You can say that in court and I’ll say it if they let me. I want to go to court. Dillon says he won’t let me, but I really want to.

Anyway, I am trying to be good in school but its harder this week since all this stuff. Some of the kids heard what happened and they said things I won’t tell you, but I haven’t gotten in a fight yet but its hard not to when people say stuff about you. I skipped math club. I’m sorry. Not feeling it this week. Plus Dillon forgot and I didn’t want to bother him because he’s trying so hard.

Come home as soon as you can. Before something else goes wrong and they come and take us to foster care.

-- Jordan

P.S. Chrissy has her first dance recital in a month. It’s a stupid girl thing but I know it would mean a lot to her for you to see her, even if you can’t talk to her. She acts like it’s not a big deal. You know how she is.”

“Okay,” I say to myself. “Noted.”

“What?” Dillon asks. He’s finished reading Joey’s letter. He looks like I feel; desperately sad.

I pass Jordan’s letter across the table to him. “I’m giving that one to my lawyer,” I say. “Maybe he can use it.”

Dillon smiles. “When did you last talk to Gratian?” he asks.

“A few days ago. Why?”

“Because he’s got a whole lot of stuff to use against Schmidt, courtesy of your fairy god mother. The network of gays in Abingdon is on your side.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“We’ll go over it later,” he says. “Read Chrissy’s letter.”

I carefully open the flap, careful not to tear the envelope. Something tells me before I even peer inside, this one is a keeper.

“My dearest, most lovable Jack-of-hearts,

I hope this note finds you okay. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. It was terrible just seeing you in the police car, so scared. I was scared for you. Uncle Dillon says you are safe with your sister Kathi now and I am so glad to hear that. I hope you are getting plenty good food to eat and have a nice bedroom all your own.

Uncle Dillon is so sad and so stressed out without you. He’s working too hard and not getting any sleep and not eating as well as he should. You need to tell him to take care of himself because he won’t listen to me.

Joey is doing as well as can be expected. He’s sensitive and it’s hard for him to adjust to so many changes so fast. He doesn’t sleep as well as he did before and I sleep with him most nights since you left. He misses your cooking. He’s not getting enough green vegetables – brain food, like you say – and I worry about that. Also, the people from Child Protective Services are mean and nosey and they talked to Joey’s gymnastics teachers so now Joey doesn’t want to go anymore but I told him you would want him to so he says he’s going to try. It’s hard for a 7-year-old to ignore bad looks and words. I wish I could go to gymnastics with him to give those people a piece of my mind, but they don’t let me go.

Jordan is mad about all this. He’s mad all the time. He’s older than me and he thinks he knows everything but sometimes he makes things worse by being so mad. I pulled him out of a fight that almost but didn’t happen at school a few days ago. He called me names and stomped off, but at least he didn’t get in trouble. When you come back you are going to have to make sure Jordan knows no one is going to hurt him again. Daddy hurt him bad. Mama didn’t do anything about it. Grandpa was scary to him too. You and Dillon are the only grown-ups he likes. Every other grown-up he doesn’t trust, so try to come back soon before Dillon gives up on us.

Also, Jordan is skipping lunch at school because the kids say nasty things and no one will sit with him and he won’t sit with me. When Dillon doesn’t have time to make breakfast that means Jordan doesn’t eat until supper. They say kids do better in school with breakfast and lunch. I can’t make him eat at school. Maybe Dillon could pack a lunch he could eat on his own?

Take care of yourself. I know you have a lot of things going on with court but it will all turn out okay. Eat good things and get your yoga done. Go for a run when you can.

I love you, Jack. I miss you, and your waffles, and your hugs and your smiles.

Your one and only ‘Princess Chrissy’”

She drew a tiny little Tinkerbell in the bottom corner of the note; the disappearing, diminutive little fairy. That drawing speaks volumes.

She told me about what everyone’s struggling with while managing to say not a single word about herself. What’s going on in her head? How’s she dealing with this? What does she need? What’s written between the lines?

She’s scared to death. She can’t bring herself to even discuss herself. She’s disappearing behind everyone else’s trauma.

“Is Chrissy eating okay?” I ask Dillon, passing her letter across to him.

He looks at me oddly. “I guess,” he says. “Why?”

“When she’s upset, she doesn’t eat,” I tell him. “She picks and pushes her food around on her plate. Take her out for ice cream. Just you and her. Talk with her about anything. She needs that. She needs to be seen and heard. Otherwise, she tries to disappear. It’s all in that letter.”

I watch Dillon read the letter. When he’s done, his expression is grave.

“She’s like some worried grandma,” Dillon says, shaking his head. “Worried about what everyone’s eating and what they’re doing or not doing. At home, she barely opens her mouth unless she’s got some profound observation.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I understand Jordan and Joey. Chrissy is way more complicated. I’m worried about her.”

“What can I do?” Dillon asks. “The CPS people are watching us like hawks. If they find anything wrong, they could take the kids.”

“Take a lot of extra time with her,” I say. “She focuses on everyone else so she doesn’t have to feel her own fear. It’s easier to put the anxiety off on other people, but in the long run, it just makes her feel like she matters less. You’ve got to make sure she knows she matters as much as everyone else.”

Dillon nods, regarding me curiously. “How do you know so much about kids?” he asks. “You seem to know what they’re thinking. What they need. How do you do it?”

How do I do it?

I haul in a lungful of air, letting it ease out before responding.

“I think…” I say, hesitating. “I think… I think I’m not far away from where they are. My childhood, it’s right there, just under the surface and ready to boil over. I know a little bit of what these kids have gone through. I feel what they feel, and it’s not always good.”

“What do you mean?” Dillon asks, thoroughly confused. “Your mom is great.”

“She is now,” I say. “But my father was a brutal, abusive man who terrorized her, and me. I had a few run-ins with CPS, who did not a damn thing to protect me or my mother. I had more than one run-in with the law when I got old enough to fight back. What I did to Henry Schmidt—I did that to my own father three times before I was sixteen years-old.”

Dillon stares at me in agonized disbelief.

“My juvenile records are sealed,” I tell him. “My father moved out after the last beating I gave him. I broke his jaw twice. He moved back in with Mom after I joined the Navy. I never saw him again. I don’t know why my mother took him back. Maybe it was the money. That’s the only reason I can think of.”

“Jesus,” Dillon mutters.

Right. “Are you second guessing having me around the kids?” I ask. “Now that you know what I did? What I did multiple times?”

Dillon stares at me in silence, like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

“I understand,” I say. “I don’t think I’d want someone like me near the kids either.”

“That is not it,” Dillon says. “If anything, all this makes your presence in their life all the more important, because you do understand, and you know how to protect them, and who to protect them from.” He almost grins at me. “Maybe you’re like the family pit bull. Loyal to a fault; don’t mess with my people or I’ll fuck you up.”

Great analogy. Not sure it’ll work in court. Juries are comprised of people who advocate putting pit bulls down as a matter of public safety.

“I love you, Jack,” he says. “The kids love you. Pit bull or otherwise, you belong to all of us. We’re not letting you go. We love you too much to even think of letting you go. You take good care of all of us.”

I shake my head. “I love you too,” I say. “And the kids. So much. But... I wouldn’t do anything to risk the kids getting taken from you. I’ve screwed up so bad and I need to face the consequences of that. And if I wind up serving time, I don’t want the kids to—”

“You’re not going to jail,” Dillon interrupts. “Your lawyer says that’s not happening. The old man isn’t hurt nearly as bad as everyone made out. You’re going to come out of this fine, and then you’re coming back home.”

“We’ll see,” I reply in a whisper, hearing the resignation in my tone. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”