Directions to CJ Davis’ home address weren’t exactly difficult to follow. Go over the railway lines, head out of town for half a kilometre, turn right onto Davis Road, and follow the dirt track a few hundred metres down past the overgrown trees and greenery to the one and only house at the end of the road.

According to rumour at the office, it had been named Davis Road after the only family who had lived on it for a hundred years. And for generations, the Davises were known for their lack of respect for the law, and if the rumours were to be believed, every single one of them had done time behind bars. All of the Davises, except for CJ, that is.

No, he never did time. He got a suspended sentence instead.

And looking at the state of the house, it was the original home. It was old. Neither weather nor time had been kind to it. Gravity, either. It had a bit of a lean, the roof was more rust than tin, and the cladding on the outside walls hadn’t seen paint since before WWII by the look of it. It was now a damp grey colour, despite the sunshine. But the lawn was mowed, the garden tidy, and someone had made an effort with the front fence. There was a glimmer of house-pride there, underneath the beaten exterior.

I walked up the narrow concrete path with CJ’s case file in my hand and nervous butterflies in my belly. I don’t know what it was about him, but something about him stuck with me. Like a pulled thread on a woollen blanket, holding its own at the moment, but it could unravel if I wasn’t careful.

The front door opened before I could knock, and CJ stood in the doorway. His arms were crossed; his jaw was set. “What do you want?”

“Hello to you too.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t move.

His bravado didn’t fool me. “I was hoping our scheduled meetings could be done in a less official capacity. I’m just here to have a quick chat, and I’ll be on my way.”

He stared.

“Or I could be an arsehole and make you come into the office, and if you miss one appointment, the police can give you a ride to prison for the remainder of your sentence. Your choice.”

His nostrils flared, and someone inside⁠—a frail voice⁠—said, “Let him in, CJ.”

CJ took another moment to glare at me before he stepped back, holding the door for me, allowing me to pass.

The first thing I noticed was the small living room. Old cream walls, probably once white, carpet that had survived the seventies, an old potbelly stove in one far corner, a square box TV in the other. Close to the fire, an old man sat on a single recliner that looked almost as old as him, and a mismatched two-seater couch sat near the front window. Nothing else would have fit. I could see a small kitchen through one door and a hall. It was old, but it was clean and it was warm.

I headed for the couch but smiled at the old man and offered him a handshake before I sat down. “My name’s Noah Huxley.”

“Nice to meet ya,” he said with a wheeze and a smile. “Name’s Ronnie, but you can call me Pops. Everyone does.”

I learned two things immediately. Pops was a nice old guy. And he was sick. I was no doctor, but by his constant wheezing and struggle for breath, my guess was emphysema. He was very thin, frail even. He had grey wispy hair, was a little unshaven, but there was a sharp light in his eyes. His body might be failing, but his mind was still there.

“You come all this way to see CJ?” Pops asked.

“Yeah, thought I’d take a drive.”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of ya.” He looked at the folder I was holding. “Whatcha got there?”

“This is CJ’s file,” I said. I held the file out towards CJ, who still stood by the door. “Can take a look if you like. There’s not much in there.”

CJ didn’t look at me. “Pops, you warm enough?”

Pops nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

And with that, CJ was gone out the front door. Pops gave me a smile. “Boy worries over me too much. He’s a good boy. Keeps me warm and fed.” He nodded toward the door CJ had walked out of, then started to cough.

“Can I get you a glass of water?”

He shook his head and waved me off as he kept coughing. And he just kept coughing, so I went into the kitchen, found a glass on the sink, filled it with tap water, and took it back to him. He sipped it and settled enough, though he still wheezed and spluttered. “Thanks.”

“That’s okay.”

He nodded toward the door. “If you came to speak to CJ . . .” He wheezed some more. “Can you tell him I’m just going to lie down for a bit?”

“Yeah, of course.”

I helped him get to his feet and watched as he gingerly made his way to the hall, then I took my file and walked out the way I’d come.

I found CJ around the side of the house at the old shed that was once probably the garage. It was too small for a car now, barely big enough to house his dirt bike and an old lawnmower. He was pretending to be busy with a spanner and a spark plug, and he was very deliberately pretending I wasn’t there.

“Uh, Pops has just gone for a lie-down. He wanted me to tell you. He was coughing pretty bad, so I got him a glass of water.”

The spanner slid off the spark plug and he took a measured breath. “I can look after him.”

“And you do quite well,” I said. “He said you do everything for him.”

CJ knelt beside his bike, knees spread, and refitted the spark plug and worked the ratchet to tighten it in. The muscles in his forearms bunched, his hips flexed a little, and his dirty white shirt rode up so I could see the skin above his low-slung jeans.

God, he was . . . a fucking client who I should not be checking out.

He jumped to his feet and I snapped out of my own head. “Whaddya want?” he asked, brushing past me as he walked back out. He put a cigarette between his lips and I was transfixed. Smoking was a filthy habit, but I’d never wanted to be a cigarette so much in my life.

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, ignoring his question. “Thanks for the bar recommendation. Had a great time.”

The lighter stopped just shy of his cigarette.

Oh, what’s that? A chink in the armour of CJ Davis?

He lit the cigarette and blew out the smoke. “You went there?”

“Last Sunday night. They have a happy hour at eight.”

He stared at the line of trees to our right and remained utterly silent.

“Did you send me to the only gay bar in Maitland for a laugh? Thinking I’d be horribly offended? Because the back room was just what I needed, if you know what I mean . . .”

His nostrils flared and I bit back a smile. The truth was, I had two drinks, chatted to a few guys, nothing more, and left very much alone. But I sure as hell wasn’t telling him that. He told me to go there as a joke. Maybe he thought I was a joke. Maybe he thought all gay people were. He had no idea I was gay, so maybe he thought sending me there was an insult?

“You got a problem with gay people, CJ?”

His gaze shot to mine, a hard, cold stare. He bit on his cigarette and drew back hard. “Fuck you.”

Maybe there was something underlying in his anger, it was hard to tell. Maybe the nerve I’d hit was a little too raw? “Have you been there?” I asked. “To HQ?”

I didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered back to the house, like the walls or the old man inside might hear. But then he glared at me, took one last drag of his cigarette, and flicked it away. “You done?”

“Yeah, I’m done.” I took two long steps and stopped in front of him. “Next week’s appointment is at the office. You know the drill. If you can’t make it, you need to check in with me first, okay?”

His jaw bulged. “Whatever.”

“You have a drugs and alcohol meeting next Thursday. Why don’t you make it after that, to save you a second trip into town.”

He folded his arms, making his jacket stretch across his shoulders, defining his biceps. It also made his shirt ride up at the front, revealing a dusting of dark hair below his navel.

God, this was so inappropriate. I didn’t know what it was about this guy that sang to me. Maybe it was his stunning rough looks or how he had no idea how good-looking he was. Maybe it was his bad-boy image that I was drawn to. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Even if there was any remote chance he was into guys, and then by some remote chance he was single, nothing could happen between us. We had a professional relationship that could not be violated, in any shape or form. Was that what attracted me to him? Wanting what I simply couldn’t have?

“You all right there?” he asked, catching me checking him out. He had a look of indignation on his face, but there was also a spark of daring in his eyes. The tips of his ears were a red that matched the colour of his lips. He stood with his feet spread and his arms crossed. It was purely defensive, confrontational even, but he wasn’t threatening to me. He was a challenge, a puzzle I wanted to solve.

I met his gaze and smiled. “Nah. Not all right. Only down one side.”

He rolled his eyes but I got a small smile.

“See you next week.” I walked back to my car, not waiting for a reply. I wasn’t expecting one. I smiled the whole drive back to Maitland.

I had no clue what I was doing. I was new to this job and probably in way over my head. I knew I couldn’t pursue anything personal with any case, but that still didn’t mean I couldn’t help. And there was truth in the saying ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’ Meaning I would help the likes of CJ more if he saw me as a friend rather than an authority figure who represented everything that reminded him of his mistakes.

The same went with all my case files. I didn’t want to see any of them go back to jail. I wanted them to get their lives on track and be active members of a functioning society.

It was that optimism that made the rest of the day fly. I saw all my cases and left them all with smiles and a handshake. I felt positive and energised, and whereas my colleagues in the office were heading home for the weekend, dragging themselves out the door, I was pumped.

I got home, decided on pizza and a six-pack for dinner, and not even a night by myself in front of the footy on TV could dampen my mood. I was used to my own company. I rather enjoyed it, if I was being truthful. Sure, I had moments of loneliness and there were times I wished I had someone to share things with, but ultimately, I was alone.

I had been for years.

When the footy was over and some lame movie had started, I was lying on the couch with my phone. I scrolled through Facebook, looking at what people I used to know were doing now. People I used to call friends.

Family.

No one mentioned me; no one tagged me. No one missed me.

I checked my messages. There were none.

I sighed, not sure how I felt about that.

Hurt. Regret. Guilt.

But not surprised.

I considered going out, finding some random hook-up at HQ but couldn’t have been bothered. I had a pretty decent buzz from the beer and I knew any more and I’d regret it tomorrow.

I also couldn’t be bothered with the whole hook-up scene. Finding some random guy, making small talk, asking awkward questions . . . it didn’t have to be so complicated. I grabbed my old laptop and, doing something I hadn’t been able to afford before now, found a famous porn subscription site and bought myself a membership. I’d only ever scoured free porn sites before. I’d seen short clips of these longer videos with famous stars in them, but I’d never had the money to pay for the full subscription.

And good Lord. One movie in and I doubted I’d ever need to leave the house again.

I made a mental note to buy more self-care products and added lube and tissues to my grocery list.

* * *

On Saturday, I went for a run, did my laundry, cleaned my already tidy house, and got my groceries. All before lunch.

In the afternoon, I took a walk down to the local park, which backed onto the sport fields. There were a few teams of men training for soccer, and it occurred to me that if this was my new start, I needed new hobbies and new friends.

Not that I’d played soccer since I was a kid, but I was reasonably fit and I was sure it was nothing I couldn’t handle. So, feeling like a new kid at school, I walked over and watched the game, and when it was done, I introduced myself.

I told them I was new in town and keen to play, and as it turned out, this was their signing-up day, and thankfully, they were looking for players. Training was Tuesday nights at six; first game was on Saturday. The team captain was a guy named Zach, and he seemed friendly enough. All the other guys were, at a guess, between twenty and thirty years old, with varying degrees of fitness, and I could see myself being friends with them. There were a bunch of names I’d probably never remember: Davo, Chris, Gibbo, Foxy, Kamahl, and one guy with a particularly nice smile, Gallan. If that was his first name, his last name, or a nickname, I had no clue. But he was cute and his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary.

Yes, making new friends was a great idea.

By the time I got home, I was feeling pretty damn good. Fresh air, exercise, conversation, and even a laugh was a bloody good way to spend an afternoon. I made myself a stir-fry for dinner, settled in bed with my laptop, my new self-care supplies, and my new gay porn subscription.

By the time I fell asleep, I almost had myself convinced that I wasn’t utterly alone.

* * *

I carried my optimism with me into next week. Even the mountains of paperwork didn’t bother me too much. Without any bitching or the long-suffering sighs I could hear from the other offices, I just trudged along, report after report, file after file, one at a time until the pile was done.

Tuesday night, I put on my new soccer boots and was ridiculously excited to go to training. The evening was cool, and I tried not to let it bother me too much that my teammates were mostly already friends with each other and I was the new kid. We started with a jog around the soccer fields, then some simple ball exercises. It was pretty apparent I was rusty, given it had been over a decade since I’d played. But the guys were forgiving and encouraging, and by the end of our first training session, I was glad I’d signed up. Exhausted, but glad.

When we were packing up our gear, Gallan chose the spot next to me to stand while he stuffed his shin pads into his backpack. He was taller than me, with floppy brown hair, and wore an ever-present smile. “Have fun?”

“Yeah, it was great,” I answered. “Though I think a jog every day’s in order. I didn’t realise I was so unfit.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, it can get away from ya.”

“I think I should be goalie until I can get through training without wanting to hurl.”

He laughed at that, but then he shrugged. “We normally grab a beer after the game on Saturday arvos. You up for that?”

If it was an invitation to be a teammate, a friend, or something more, I didn’t care. I was up for any or all. “Sounds good.”

“You’re new to town, yeah?”

I nodded. “Yep. Been here for a few weeks.”

“Where from?”

“Newcastle.”

“Oh, that’s not too far,” he said, like it couldn’t possibly be a life-changing move.

“No, not too far at all,” I lied. The truth was, it wasn’t far in kilometres, but the emotional mileage was huge.

The team was dispersing, saying goodbyes, so we had no reason to stay and chat. Gallan started walking to his car, but he gave me a parting glance and smile. “See ya Saturday.”

I wasn’t blind or stupid. There was definitely interest there. A swoop of exhilaration tightened in my belly. “Sure thing.”

I went home, almost giddy. It was ridiculous, but I think I was actually happy. Though I couldn’t get something out of my head. When I’d told CJ I’d moved from Newcastle, he immediately understood the significance of even the smallest distance. Gallan simply brushed it aside.

I didn’t know what it meant, but it was something that gnawed at my periphery for the next few days.

CJ was due to come into the office on Thursday. I knew he had the compulsory drugs and alcohol meeting to attend first, but with every minute ticking down to five o’clock⁠—the cut-off time⁠—his absence made me nervous.

Out of all my cases, I wanted him to succeed the most.

I tried to keep them all equal. They each had potential, and I had equal hopes for each and every one of them. But CJ was different. If it was because I wanted him to walk through those doors to prove to me that he was worthy or to prove it to himself, I wasn’t sure. And I hadn’t yet figured out why I’d put myself in that equation at all.

“You almost done?” Terrell asked.

I stared at the door. It was raining outside; maybe that’s why he was late. “Yeah, almost.”

Terrell nodded slowly. “Who’re ya missing?”

“CJ Davis.”

“A no- show?”

I looked at my watch and sighed. He had five minutes. “Maybe.”

Terrell hummed. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much we wish they’d do the right thing. No matter what we do for ’em, the responsibility comes down to them. We can’t physically make ’em walk through that door.”

Disappointment soaked in my chest like a sodden sponge. “I was sure he’d be here.”

Just then, the front door pushed open and a very wet CJ barrelled inside. He shook his head, spraying a halo of water around him. His leather jacket was slicked wet, his jeans much the same. Water pooled at his feet.

He looked like a puppy that had fallen in its water dish. A very cute puppy that huffed and glared at the rain outside. Terrell clapped my shoulder as he walked away, and I stood up. “Raining much?” I asked, unable to stop my smile.

“Fuck you,” CJ said.

I could feel the other officers turn our way at his slur, but all I could do was laugh. That cute puppy’s bite was playful at best. I pulled a chair out for him. “Take a seat.”

He squelched in the seat as he sat. He really was soaked through. “Man, it’s pissing down out there.”

“I can tell.”

He ignored me. “Can’t be here long. Five thirty’s the last bus and I gotta be on it. Plus the only bus stop to Ten Mile Creek is from High Street, so I’ve got like five minutes, tops. The drugs and alcohol meeting was fine, if not a complete waste of my time. I went to work three days this week. Mr Barese’ll tell ya the same thing if you gotta call him. Is that everything? ’Cause I really do gotta go.” His knee bounced and he looked around the room. “What’s the time?”

I really did understand his need to leave, but there was a procedure to go through and he knew that. “I just have some papers I need you to fill out. It won’t take a minute.” I slid the two-page form across the desk toward him.

He stared at it, then his dark eyes met mine. “Can I take it home and bring it back in? I really gotta go. I can’t miss that bus.”

“CJ,” I started.

“If I miss the bus, I can’t get home. Pops needs the house warm. If it gets too cold, he starts coughing worse than normal. And I gotta cook him dinner, otherwise he don’t eat.”

I couldn’t deny the desperation in his voice. His need to leave wasn’t for himself, it was for someone else. I gave the papers a pointed nod. “Sure. Take them.”

He quickly took the form, folded it in half, and stuffed it into the inside of his jacket. He stood up and started for the door. But before I could stop myself, before I could ask myself what the hell I was doing, I called out to him. “CJ, wait!”

He stopped and half-turned to face me.

“Gimme two minutes and I’ll drive you.”

His surprise quickly became suspicious and I regretted my offer, but I couldn’t very well take it back. “It’s pouring rain, and it’s getting dark already,” I added to justify it to him or myself, or possibly the both of us. I had no clue at this point.

He was obviously stunned into silence because he just stood there. “Just wait here,” I said. I dashed into my office, plucked my jacket off the back of my seat, packed my files away, and collected my phone and keys from my top drawer. I was sure he’d be gone already by the time I came back out, but much to my surprise, he was still there. Arms crossed and suspicion unmasked on his face.

“Oh, quit acting like it’s the first time someone’s ever done something nice for ya,” I said, trying to make a joke of it. “Car’s out the back.” I nodded toward the hall I’d come from, the opposite direction from the door he’d used.

He stood there like a rabbit in headlights. Caught between fight or flight. It was an internal battle I knew well. “Come on, this way. I don’t bite.”

I didn’t have to turn around to know he was following me. I could hear his boots squelch with each step. If any of my co-workers wondered what the hell I was doing, none of them said anything. Hell, I don’t even think any of them even noticed. I got to the back door and held it open for him. “After you.”

I smiled at him as he walked past, but he kept his head down, not looking at me. The back of the building and the car park were covered, so we didn’t have to worry about getting wet. I pressed the unlock button on my key to save me telling him which car was mine, and we both walked toward it.

“Thought you drove a Commodore,” he said, obviously meaning the one he’d seen me drive to his house last week.

I opened my door and got in and waited for him to do the same before I answered. “That’s a company vehicle. This one’s mine.” My car was an older model blue Corolla. Nothing flash, but I owned it outright. “Got her secondhand a few years ago. She’s not too pretty, but she’s cheap to run.”

“She?”

“I haven’t named my car,” I replied, “if that’s what you mean. She’s just a she.” I reversed out of the park and headed down the drive toward the exit. I wound down my window and fed my card to the scanner, making the boom gate rise.

“I meant why a she?”

I pulled the car up to the street and waited for a bus to pass before joining the other traffic in the rain. “Because no girl has broken my heart. Figured it was a good omen because she hasn’t broken down on me yet.”

His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile, but then he looked the opposite way I was driving and he frowned. “Uh, you’re going the wrong way. High Street’s that way.” He pointed toward the rear window.

“High Street?”

“The bus stop?”

“Oh.” Well, shit. “I was driving you home, yeah?”

“I thought you meant you’d drive me to the bus stop.”

I instinctively checked my watch. “If I head back in that direction now, I don’t think you’ll make it. It really is fine. I’ll drive you and you’ll be home quicker.”

He huffed and sank back in his seat. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “Though I’m making your seat all wet.”

I shrugged. “It’ll dry.”

It was normally a fifteen-minute drive, but with the rain and peak-hour traffic, it was slower going. The windscreen wipers made a lonely sound and seemed to get louder with each swipe, and the static in the car increased in tempo with the damn windscreen wipers until I couldn’t stand it. I stabbed the radio button before something combusted.

CJ seemed completely unaffected. “I think you should name her.”

“You what?”

“Your car. You can’t just call it a she. That’s . . . disrespectful or something.”

I almost laughed at the absurdity. “Got any suggestions?”

“Nuh. I said you should name her. Not me.”

“Well, I dunno . . . What about Coroline? Like Corolla but not.”

He squinted at me. “No.”

“You can’t criticise unless you come up with a suggestion.”

He scowled at me until I turned onto the road that would take us out of town. Or maybe he didn’t like me smiling at him. He turned to look out the window, and when I thought he had no intention of answering, he said, “Roller Girl. As in Corolla Girl.”

I laughed. “That’s pretty good. I like it.”

And then we fell back into silence. It wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either. I kept trying to get a look at him without being too obvious, which wasn’t easy. I could smell the cigarette smoke on him and his wet clothes. It wasn’t terrible. It was kind of earthy in an ashtray kind of way; a thought that made me smile. I hated smoking, so why didn’t I hate the smell on him?

I bumped up the heater. “You warm enough?”

“Yeah. Fine, thanks.” He chewed on the inside of his lip. “Thanks again for drivin’ me home. You didn’t need to do that.”

“I’m doing it for Pops. Can’t have him getting cold.”

One corner of his mouth curled upwards. And God, his smile really was something else.

I let a moment of silence pass between us. “I’m really glad you turned up today.”

He shot me a surprised look. “You thought I wasn’t gonna show?”

“You only had eight hours to come in and you left it seven hours and fifty-five minutes.”

“I had that stupid meeting. Across town. And I had to walk. In the rain.” He scowled at me again. “I wouldn’t ever miss a meeting. I can’t go to jail. I can’t be leavin’ Pops on his own.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s why I’m glad you made it. I don’t want you to fail.”

He gave me a look that was curious and disbelieving. “You’re not like the other POs.”

“Well, I hope not. I’m trying to make a difference.”

He frowned at his rain-splattered window, and I could almost see him close down on me, which was not what I wanted at all. I wanted him to like me. I had no idea why, but I did.

“I joined a soccer team,” I announced, steering the conversation into safer waters. “I haven’t played in years and I’m unfit as hell and we’ve only had one training session, but it’s been fun.”

Now he looked at me like I was shit on his shoe. “Soccer? Are you actually trying to win citizen of the year?”

I snorted. “I totally am.”

“It’d be easier if you just went and bought yourself a trophy.”

I laughed at that, happy he at least felt comfortable enough with me to joke, even if he was taking the piss. “I’m trying to make new friends,” I admitted. “It’s not easy being new in town and not knowing anyone.”

CJ’s brow furrowed. After a long beat of silence, he said, “Yeah, I get it.”

“Being new in town?” I thought his file said he’d lived in Ten Mile Creek all his life.

“No, the part about friends. There ain’t many people my age in Ten Mile Creek. Not that any of ’em give me the time of day. To them, I’m nothin’ but a Davis.”

I looked from the road ahead to him. “And that’s a bad thing?”

Now he snorted. “You have no idea.”

“Well, I’m sorry they judged you without getting to know you.” And I was. God knew I’d worn the brunt of judgement in my life. I knew firsthand how it stung. “If you want to join the soccer team . . .”

CJ barked out a laugh. Like, a loud, harsh laugh. “Soccer? Me?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes were almost bugging out of his head. “Sport? Of any kind?” He laughed again. “Jesus. Fuck no.”

I chuckled at his response. “Fair enough.”

I flipped the blinker on and slowed to turn into Ten Mile Creek. The rain had lifted a little, though the clouds were low and set in, and it was almost dark. It was gloomy, and I was a little disappointed that our time together was coming to an end.

As I drove over the railway lines, CJ cleared his throat. “So, my visit next week will be a home one, yeah?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.” I frowned at him. I was pretty sure he knew that. “Why? Something up?”

He made a face. “I’d rather you didn’t come round my house no more.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

He chewed on his lip again. “It unsettles Pops. He gets upset.”

I didn’t want to call bullshit outright, but I didn’t buy that one bit. I hated to leap to conclusions, but my first instinct was to believe he was hiding something. It didn’t make sense though. I’d been in his house and it was clean and smelt fresh. Now that I recalled, it didn’t even smell of cigarettes, which meant CJ only smoked outside⁠—probably due to Pops’ emphysema⁠—but if he wouldn’t smoke in the house, it was highly unlikely he’d have any other kind of drugs in there. I’d seen his shed, the neatly kept yard. If I were a betting man, I’d say no to CJ having any drugs in the house.

Then again, for all I knew, maybe he and Pops ran the state’s largest drug manufacturing ring. Or not. Maybe CJ was telling me the truth. Maybe Pops did get upset.

“Well, I can’t promise anything.”

“Wayne never came around home,” CJ said, like telling me my predecessor was incompetent was going to make me the same.

“I get the feeling Wayne didn’t do much of anything.”

His brow furrowed like he wanted to say something else, but movement at his house made us both turn. The front door opened and Pops’ small frame barely filled the doorway. “Gotta go,” CJ said, getting out of the car and running, slightly hunched against the rain. It sounded like he called, “Thanks for the lift,” but I couldn’t be sure.

It wasn’t until I got home that I remembered the forms I’d given him. Dammit. I could have waited while he filled them out . . .

* * *

When I got to work the next morning, Sheryl was already behind the reception desk. She gave me a bright and cheery ‘good morning’ and handed me some familiar papers. “These were slid under the front door when I got in,” she explained.

It was CJ’s question form. He must have been up early to get them here before we opened, and I wondered if he came into town on his dirt bike and needed the cover of darkness. It didn’t look registered, and I had to wonder if he even had a licence.

Should I report him for that? What would happen to him if I did? What would happen to me if I didn’t?

I fell into my office chair with a sigh and flipped the page to see what he’d written. The writing was messy. Not in a poor-handwriting kind of way, but in a shaky-hand kind of way. Like CJ hadn’t written it at all. It looked more like Pops had. Except the signature on the bottom was pretty obviously written by a different hand. Like CJ’s hand.

I pulled out CJ’s file, then logged into my computer and pulled up his digital file as well. I was looking for anything else that might have been handwritten . . . But that wasn’t what I found.

There, in CJ’s history, was a child welfare report. I read through it with a twist in my gut and an ache in my heart.

At the time, CJ was nine years old and had been taken to hospital for a broken arm. The child claimed he fell out of a tree; the child’s grandfather claimed the same. Healed, but obvious, cigarette burns on the boy’s arm said otherwise and DoCS was called. The boy’s father, parolee Dwayne Davis, was arrested, charged awaiting sentencing, and sent back to jail. The child was released into the care of the grandfather. Regular check-ups declared the child healthy and happy with his grandfather.

But it was a later notation that caught my eye.

Attends school sporadically.

Numeracy and literacy skills: nil.

I closed down the screen and pushed his file away. I had no clue, not one iota of what it was like to walk in CJ’s shoes. What he’d been through, the life he’d lived, the shitty childhood he’d endured. I really didn’t know much about him at all. Other than he was, at his very heart, a good man. He cared for his ageing grandfather; he helped his boss out with yard work he could no longer do himself.

He wouldn’t read the forms I put in front of him. He wouldn’t fill them out or sign them in front of me.

And I was also pretty sure CJ Davis couldn’t read or write.