As the elevator doors opened, Don allowed himself a small sigh of relief. He hated, hated so-called "Special Clearance" meetings. The term "Special Clearance" was a simple euphemism for budgetary ass-chewing. Fortunately, he maintained that he had no ass left to chew, and the board agreed. Barely.
He strode to his office on autopilot, hardly glancing up from his phone for even seconds. The device had vibrated almost incessantly throughout the entire meeting. How did Charlie or Dad always know when he was in a meeting? The messages went from cordial to terse and finally angry. At least Charlie's were text messages, easily deleted.
It took him a full minute to realize that Sinclair and Reeves were waiting at his desk and only then because Reeves cleared her throat. He raised his head quickly enough to ensure whiplash. Because he was an overachiever, he felt the telling numbness creeping up the side of his face.
"Whoa! Can't a man be in his office five seconds without being ambushed?" said Don crankily, trying to cover his preoccupation.
"One, you've been in your office for more than five seconds, and two, this is not an ambush. This is desperation," retorted Megan. Don paused in the middle of taking his jacket off to look at her more closely. Though the words said were in fun, the tone was not.
"Colby got a letter," added David. Don swallowed carefully and tried to collect his thoughts. That was difficult to do when he was still in semi-administrative battle mode. He sat in his chair and they followed his example.
"It's okay for Colby to get mail," Don began slowly, his tone overly calm.
"Certified?" pressed Megan, sliding slightly toward the edge of her seat. Don slid back from his desk somewhat in an unconscious effort to put some distance between himself and his overly anxious agents.
"Certified is unusual, but-" David cut him off, frustrated.
"Megan thinks it's another black op, another spy game," he blurted out. Megan gave him a glare, and David rolled his eyes at her.
"What's your proof that this letter is, well, what you think it is?" asked Don.
"Well, he had to give them his fingerprint to get it," said David.
"And?" prodded Don, growing more irritated by the second.
"It was delivered to him half an hour ago, and he hasn't moved since, hasn't spoken to anyone," worried Megan. "I knocked on the glass, tried to get his attention a couple of times, but he's even turned his cell off."
"Where is he?" Don sighed, rising from his chair.
"Conference room," answered a relieved David. Don left his office with a determined stride. Megan was not prone to overreaction, and David was not prone to antagonizing Megan. He shook his head wryly. It must be his day for everything and everyone around him to go bananas.
Megan and David watched him depart. After a beat, David tilted his head toward the conference room. The two agents rose and made their way after their boss as nonchalantly as possible.
In the conference room, Colby sat with his head in his hands, mind awhirl. You have a son, if you want one. It was not subtle, but subtlety had never been her style. He picked up the letter and re-read it again.
Dear Colby,
You have a son, if you want one. I see no reason to begin with a large preamble; those are for Constitutions and marriage ceremonies. I need to know your thoughts on the subject.
He's not yours in the strictest sense, though he bears your name. I always liked Granger, and the name has liked him back. Granger Devon Kritchfield is ten years old, but already ahead of his time in life experience. For that, I'll always be sorry; I won't have the chance to make it up to him.
I have end-stage ovarian cancer. By the time I knew something was wrong, it was too late to do anything about it. Granger knows that I'm sick, and he knows that I'm going to die. He also knows that I'm doing everything I can to find a family who will love and care for him. He doesn't have the advantage of extended family; I divorced his 'father' on my own and we fled from his family.
The man I married is not what he seemed at first. He is in the second tier of leadership for a white supremacist group, prone to violent demonstrations. Yes, I was five months pregnant and desperate for a roof over my head. Yes, I was stupid enough to move away from the little family I have and let him isolate me completely. He knows everyone I know, excepting you that is.
I hate the fact that you're my only hope because this is so unfair to you. Unfortunately, I'm out of options. If I put him up for adoption, my ex-husband or his family will likely get custody. I don't have enough time to request paternity testing to prove that my ex-husband isn't the father; you know how likely it is that I even know who Granger's father is.
If I can't find someone to take him in, I'll have to take him with me. I am deadly serious about that. Sorry, no pun intended. I'm hoping that you won't have to take him in because you'll have a better solution. You always were a very smart kid. I'm hoping that ten years has only added to that big brain of yours. You have many faults, but ignorance was never one of them.
Enclosed in the other two envelopes are some pictures. Look at them, don't look at them, it's up to you. There are also pre-addressed envelopes and the number of the courier service I used; any and all correspondence has already been paid for.
If you can't or don't want to take Granger, I understand. No one knows better than I do what exactly I'm asking. It's beyond the moon, maybe even beyond the stars. But if you could grab a chunk of sky for me, I'd appreciate it.
Please respond, no matter what you decide. I'll at least be able to rest knowing that I did everything I could for my son. I hope to hear from you soon.
Most Sincerely,
Jeanette Barnes
Colby heaved a deep, dispirited sigh. So many emotions begged for top billing that he didn't know what to feel first. Pity, sorrow, sympathy, helplessness, and frustration were heavy contenders. But he'd laughed at her reference to the "chunk of sky" he'd promised her so many years ago, laughed when she excused her blunt first sentence with sarcasm about preamble and the Government class they'd shared senior year.
Memories screamed through his head like bullet trains. Passing notes in Mr. Sperry's English class that said absolutely nothing; racing home on the rails of the train tracks, each of them trying not to fall. Meeting in the basement of one of his football buddies, pretending to-
He scrubbed his hand over his face, willing them away. Here, here and now was where the dilemma lay. For a brief moment, he wished he'd been more forceful with the courier, wished that he'd forced the papers away. But he knew that, given the choice between ignorance or the opportunity to help his friend, he'd always choose the latter. After all, ignorance wasn't one of his faults.
Don studied the hunched figure just inside the glass for a brief moment. He had to concentrate intensely to see if Colby was even breathing. Resisting the urge to roll up his sleeves, Don heaved a deep pull-yourself-together-and-prepare-for-the-worst sigh and gently opened the door.
Colby didn't realize the door had opened until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Slightly startled, he turned and saw his boss standing behind him. Don smiled reassuringly and took a chair across the table from him. He cleared his throat.
"What's goin' on here?" he asked far more calmly than he felt. Truth be told, Megan and David had him jumpy, too. Colby gave him a sad smile and looked at the table.
"Just your regular, run-of-the-mill catch-22," he replied, his voice laying his anguish bare for all the world to see.
