In His Shadow, Part 5: The Wait

My apologies for switching up this story! I did indeed reference Trey's death in chapter 1, before it became clear that the show wasn't going to kill the character. So I resurrected him too, forgetting that I'd (gulp) said he was dead, and thinking only that I'd mentioned him being shot. I revised chapter 1 to reflect this—and thanks to the reviewers who pointed it out! Now the story presumes that Trey's attempt to escape to Los Vegas didn't work out. He was picked up on parole violations (possession of a gun and drugs, leaving the state) and returned to prison.

Sandy sat listening to his turn-signal tick off empty seconds, waiting for the light to change. One finger tapped against the steering wheel. Belatedly, he realized what he was doing and stopped, forcing out a half-hearted chuckle.

"I give it a 75, Dick. It doesn't have a good beat, and you can't dance to it." When Ryan didn't reply, didn't even react at all, Sandy explained, "That's an 'American Bandstand' reference, kid. Way before your time, I know. Mine too, really, but hey, the show's practically a cultural icon."

A horn behind them blared impatiently, reminding Sandy that he had a green arrow. With an apologetic wave, he turned down the bleak drive leading to Chino prison. As he did, his eyes narrowed and a sour taste filled his mouth. For the first time, it struck Sandy that even the parking lot here resembled a kind of jail. Bare and bleached gray, it was surrounded by a sinister fence and supervised by a guard who checked IDs as people entered. He peered at the photos and then into the cars, scrutinizing faces as if he might have to describe them later to a sketch artist.

Chilled by the guard's icy stare, Sandy replaced his wallet, his gaze sliding furtively over to Ryan as he pulled into a parking space.

A wry half-smile splintered the boy's face for just a moment. "You don't have to keep doing that, Sandy," he murmured.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me that way. Like you're making sure I'm still here."

"I wasn't--" Sandy protested. Then he sighed, admitting ruefully, "Okay, I was. You absolutely sure about this, kid?"

Ryan plucked at the hem of his sweater, averting his eyes. "Yeah," he muttered, the word evaporating in one heavy breath. When he unlatched his seat belt, its click echoed, sharp and metallic in the silence of the car.

"Wait," Sandy urged. He laid a hand on Ryan's arm, gently holding him in place. "Look, I've got to talk with my client before I see about getting you in to visit Trey. It'll be at least half an hour, maybe a little more, and I'm sorry, Ryan, but you can't sit in on this meeting. Why don't you take the car and go . . . I don't know, maybe get something to eat?"

A shadow of weary gratitude crossed Ryan's face, but he shook his head. "We just had lunch."

"Hey, that was almost two hours ago," Sandy countered, striving for a light, bantering tone. "Come on. You must have worked up an appetite since then."

"On the putting green?" Ryan bit back a tiny grin. "Yeah, not so much."

Sandy blew out a defeated breath. "Right," he conceded. "I just hate the idea of you sitting inside this place waiting for me, kid."

"I know," Ryan said softly. "And thanks—for trying to make this easier, I mean. But I can deal with it." He said the last words with quiet confidence, and Sandy smiled his approval.

"Okay, then. I'll be as quick as I can. Ready?"

Ryan nodded once and reached for his briefcase. Then he frowned. "I shouldn't take this with me," he mused.

"Why not?"

"It just . . . it doesn't feel right. Not here."

Sandy's brows creased anxiously, but he didn't argue. "Then leave it," he suggested. "It will be safe in the car."

Sandy watched as Ryan got out. He saw how the boy's eyes scanned the area, seeking the exit, how he automatically slid his hands down his sides, balling them into fists when he found no pockets where they could hide. The hunched shoulders, the shuttered face, reminded Sandy painfully of the last time he and Ryan had entered this place, the day that Trey had been released. With the clarity of hindsight, Sandy recalled how Ryan had shrunk in on himself then, the same way he was doing now. Instinctively, his body was trying to present the smallest possible target, to shield him against hope, brace him for disappointment.

"So," Sandy said casually as they crossed the baked asphalt of the parking lot, "Italian for dinner tonight, huh?"

Ryan blinked against the sunlight. "What?"

"Dinner?" Sandy prompted. "When Kirsten called, you asked her to order Italian?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did." Just as Sandy had hoped, a trace of tension drained from Ryan's face at the thought of Kirsten and home, and a faint smile played briefly at the corners of his lips. "She asked what I wanted—well, really, what the firm of Cohen and Atwood wanted—to eat. Italian okay with you?"

Sandy clapped an arm around Ryan's shoulders. "Ah, you know me, kid. Anytime I get Montoni's linguini carbonara I am a happy man."

"Yeah, only I think Kirsten said she was going to order from Luigi's."

Abruptly, Sandy rocked to a stop, one foot on the first step leading to the prison entrance, pulling Ryan to a halt beside him. "Luigi's?" he objected. "Oh, no. That is unacceptable. What they call al dente is more like uncooked. I am not eating pasta that has the texture of dry cereal. Here . . ." Snapping open his briefcase, Sandy pulled out his cell phone and thrust it at Ryan. "Call Kirsten. Tell her the senior partner in Cohen and Atwood demands Montoni's and that he refuses to negotiate."

Ryan tilted his head, frowning quizzically at Sandy. The phone rested, unclaimed, on his open palm.

"I mean it, Ryan," Sandy insisted. He looked up the stairs at the heavy gray door, with its opaque grilled window, then back at Ryan, and his words tangled on the frayed edge of entreaty. "Call Kirsten. And then . . . I don't know, call Seth, or Marissa--"

"No!" Ryan blurted. "Not Marissa."

Sandy sensed the boy's frisson of panic and amended quietly, "Right. You wouldn't want to phone Marissa from here. But you can call the time and temperature, or the joke of the day or—hell, I don't know, call Beth at the club if you want. Just don't come inside, kid. Please."

Ryan hesitated. When he spoke, his tone was taut with disappointment. "But Sandy, you said--"

"I said I'd try to get you in to see Trey. And I will do that, I promise," Sandy maintained. "But I don't want you waiting inside this place alone."

His cheeks burning with comprehension, Ryan tried to return the phone. "Sandy, it's okay. I told you, I can handle this."

"Maybe you can. But I can't. So do this for me, okay kid?" Sandy urged. This client I'm seeing . . . the D.A. just offered him a plea bargain. If I can talk him into accepting it, I'll be able to get him home to his family in eighteen months, tops. But he's set on a trial, so to convince him that he should take the plea, I need to be on top of my game. I won't be if I'm--" Sandy left the statement unfinished, but Ryan felt the weight of the words he didn't say.

"Worried about me," he concluded flatly.

"Right." Sandy cupped a hand under Ryan's chin, making the boy look up to meet his eyes. "Seriously," he said, his voice low and grave, "this is no place to be by yourself. It gets to everyone, Ryan, even people who don't have somebody inside that they care about. I swear, I will come get you as soon as my meeting is over."

Unable to evade Sandy's measuring gaze, Ryan straightened his shoulders, swallowing hard. "So this guy you're defending," he asked, "he's got a family waiting for him?"

"Three kids," Sandy answered promptly. "Two little girls and an infant son."

His eyes dark with mingled compassion and memory, Ryan took a shaky breath. "Okay," he agreed. "I'll wait for you out here."

Impulsively, Sandy wrapped him in a quick hug. "Thanks," he murmured. "And you'll call Kirsten and Seth? You won't just sit and brood?"

"I don't--" Ryan began, but Sandy wagged his eyebrows and he finished sheepishly. "Well, not as much anymore. But yeah, if that's what you want me to do, I'll call."

"That's my boy."

With a final, reassuring smile, Sandy disappeared inside the building. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ryan slid down the wall, pressing his back against its pebbled surface, and pulling his knees up to his chest. There was no overhang, no shade to assuage the pitiless sun, and no breeze to stir the stagnant air.

There was, Ryan thought, no escape possible from this hellish place.

In the silence, he could hear the final echo of the latch snapping shut. He forced his mind to mute that sound, to replay instead Sandy's parting remark. "That's my boy," he had said, and Ryan couldn't make himself care that the words weren't literally true.

Sandy had meant them. He wouldn't lie.

Lifting the cell phone, Ryan flipped it open, but then his hand stalled.

Two months ago, he and Seth had been absorbed in a fierce video battle when the Cohens' phone rang. From behind the book he was reading, Sandy had glanced at the boys expectantly. When neither of them moved, he rolled his eyes, heaved an indulgent sigh and took the call himself. Almost immediately, all the animation seeped from his face, leaving it still and expressionless when he hung up the phone. He had cleared his throat once, and then choked out, "Ryan," two syllables that sucked all the air from the room. Trey, Sandy reported, had been apprehended in Las Vegas; he was being returned to Chino prison to serve out his full prison term.

There had been a few seconds when his words hung suspended, flayed by the violent noise of the abandoned videogame. Then Ryan had placed his controller on the coffee table, pushed himself to his feet and turned robotically toward the pool house. He didn't stop to learn the details—what Trey had been doing, whether he had committed some other crime, whether someone had turned him in. Sandy had waited, his concerned eyes probing Ryan's face, expecting questions that Ryan couldn't force through his closed throat.

It hardly mattered anyway. Whatever had happened, it was already done. Maybe the outcome had always been inevitable.

At the doorway, Ryan had paused, staring at some invisible spot in the distance. He managed only three words, his voice thick and bruised. "Is he okay?"

"Physically? Yeah, he's okay."

Ryan had nodded and opened the French doors.

"Kid, wait--" Sandy had called, "do you want . . .?"

He left the inquiry open, hoping that Ryan might fill in the blank, but Ryan shook his head almost imperceptibly and vanished into the pool house.

To see him, he thought now. That's what Sandy had been about to suggest. Do you want to see Trey?

Ryan himself didn't really understand why he had rejected the idea. Immediately after his release from juvie, he had felt compelled to see his brother, driven to Trey's deserted hospital room by a million thoughts jostling in his mind, demanding to be spoken. But he had lost his chance. Trey boarded a bus and its doors closed, sealing him inside before Ryan could reach him. Through the glazed window separating them, all the brothers could offer each other was one forlorn look, one silent wave. That single gesture seemed to erase everything—the questions and accusations, the need to apologize, the need to explain, the desperate need to discover if their lifelong bond had been severed forever.

Ryan missed Trey in every way possible.

Always before. their shared past, their essential brotherhood, had sustained Ryan, like some steadying hand against his back, warm and familiar, even when its nails bit into his skin. When the bus pulled away, so did that support. Ryan felt himself start to waver, cold and lonely with loss.

But Sandy had been there to hold him up.

Sandy was always there, solid and strong, and so was Seth, and at last even Kirsten had returned, sealing in the security of the Cohen family, sheltering Ryan from his memories.

Sitting on the gritty, heat-baked cement outside the prison door, Ryan forced himself to admit how much he had come to take for granted: home, structure, security. Kept promises. Unconditional love. He had relaxed into the comforting Cohen routine, lulled by bagels and cereal, take-out containers and curfews, morning talks with Seth, Kirsten's concern about his well-being, Sandy's belief in his future. In him.

Eventually, Ryan could almost pretend he had known no other life.

So he had allowed himself to ignore the fault line that ran under that world. Even with Trey back in the Chino prison, Ryan hadn't acknowledged the tremor, or the cracks that threatened to open under him.

Now he had no choice.

Disgusted with himself, he tilted his head back, staring into the sun until his vision blurred and his eyes itched with unshed tears. Ryan palmed them dry fiercely. He took a deep breath, angled himself away from the door, and punched a number into Sandy's phone, blowing out small puffs of air as he waited for Kirsten to answer.

She picked up on the third ring. "Afternoon, sweetheart," she caroled, her voice lilting flirtatiously. "This is a surprise. Let me guess. You're calling just to say that you miss me?"

"Um . . . Kirsten? It's not . . . I mean, it's Ryan."

"Ryan!" Kirsten punctuated the word with an embarrassed giggle. "Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. It's just that you're using Sandy's phone, so I thought . . ."

Ryan flushed, suspecting that Kirsten was doing the same on her end. "Yeah, I know," he said. "Sandy asked me to call."

"He did? Why? Is anything wrong?"

"No," Ryan claimed. Closing his eyes to block out his surroundings, he focused on sounding nonchalant. "Well, maybe from Sandy's perspective there is. I told him we were having Italian tonight and he was wondering if we could order from Montoni's."

Amusement bubbled through Kirsten's reply. "Was he now?"

"Actually," Ryan confessed, "he wasn't so much wondering as demanding. Sandy said . . ."

"What?" Kirsten prompted. "Don't you cover for him, Ryan. What did Sandy say?

"He said no negotiations."

Kirsten emitted an exasperated sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. "Honestly, that man!" she exclaimed. "Just because he gets slightly undercooked pasta once, he wants to boycott the place forever. And now he makes you relay his demands? Oh, he is not getting away with that. Put Sandy on, Ryan. Let me talk to him."

"Um . . . sorry, I can't. He's with a client. That's why he asked me to call."

"Really? You're not sitting in on the meeting?"

Ryan tightened his hold on the phone defensively. "Not this one. I can't. It's confidential."

"Oh," Kirsten breathed, her obvious surprise shaded with concern. "I thought Sandy cleared his schedule so you could be with him all day."

"Yeah, well, pretty much, he did. This meeting just . . . came up . . . and it's not a big deal really, Kirsten. It'll just last a half an hour or so."

"Even so, I'm sure Sandy is disappointed." Kirsten lowered her voice confidentially. "Promise you won't let him know I told you this, Ryan, but he was thrilled that you asked to do this project with him. He acted like a little kid who just got the perfect present on his birthday."

Ryan's lips curved into a wistful smile, and he shifted the phone, damp from his sweaty grasp, into his other hand. "Yeah?"

"Absolutely. Spending the day with you like this? It means so much to him. And the icing on the cake was that you agreed go surfing with him this morning. You're spoiling him for the rest of us, Ryan," Kirsten teased.

"The surfing was pretty great, actually," Ryan recalled. He frowned, wondering why the memory wasn't more vivid, why it already seemed so distant and dim.

Kirsten's gentle voice roused him. "And what about the rest of the day?"

"There's been . . . a lot. I don't know if I can explain," Ryan answered carefully. He faltered, searching for the right words. "This sounds sort of silly, Kirsten—I mean, I've lived with you guys for two years—but I kind of feel like I'm really getting to know Sandy today."

"Oh, Ryan. That's not silly at all. In fact, I think it's pretty wonderful."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed slowly. "Yeah, me too. So maybe . . . we can order from Montoni's after all?"

Kirsten laughed, a sparkling sound like clear water. "All right," she conceded. "But I want you to know, I'm doing this for you, not for Sandy."

"Thanks, Kirsten."

"Anytime, sweetie. So do you know what time you'll be home?"

Ryan hesitated, glancing up at opaque prison door. "Not exactly," he hedged. "I think we've got one more meeting after this."

"And you'll get to go with Sandy to that one?"

Shading his eyes, Ryan turned away from the entrance and squinted toward the horizon. "I hope so, yeah," he answered softly.

"I hope so too. Just give me a call when the meeting is over so I can place our order. By the way, Ryan, do you want anything special or should I just get your usual?"

Ryan blinked, startled. "I have a usual?"

"Lasagna and meatballs with extra breadsticks, and coffee gelato for desert," Kirsten recited immediately. "That's right, isn't it?"

"That's . . . yeah, that's totally right. How did you know that?"

Kirsten's tone, warm and intimate, wrapped around Ryan like an embrace. "It's one of the things I've learned recently, sweetie—how important it is to pay attention to the people we love . . . And I can't wait to hear all about your day when you get home."

"Yeah. Home," Ryan murmured. Behind him, he heard the door groan open, breaking the spell of their conversation. "I've got to go, Kirsten," he said hastily, eager to hang up before any ambient sounds suggested his location. "I'll call you when we're done, okay? Bye."

Scrambling to his feet, Ryan turned, hoping to see Sandy waiting at the door, but instead several guards exited. At the sight of their uniforms, Ryan instinctively moved out of the way, pressing himself flat against the wall as they pushed past. One of them looked back as he went down the stairs, raking his eyes curiously over Ryan. His mouth dry, his breath faltering, Ryan dropped his own gaze and stood motionless until the men disappeared in the direction of the parking lot.

It was a shift change, he told himself sternly. That's all.

Still, it took Ryan several minutes to compose himself, to dispel the sick, claustrophobic feeling churning his stomach. He balled his hands into fists, smiling bitterly. No wonder Sandy hadn't wanted him to wait inside. Even outdoors, with no walls around him, just the sight of guards made him react as if he were in prison himself.

Ryan had thought he was stronger than that.

Ashamed, he finally sat down again, clutching the phone, his finger automatically punching in another number.

"Pick up, Seth," he muttered as the phone rang, and then sighed in relief when he heard the talk button click on.

"Yo, what up, Mack Daddy?" Seth asked in his best white rapper voice.

Ryan's brows furrowed in confusion. "What up, Mack Daddy?" he repeated dubiously.

"Or, you know, Hi, Dad. What's going on? . . . Whoa, wait. Ryan? That you, man?"

"Hey, Seth."

"So . . . 'sup, dawg? Puttin' minutes on da man's cell while he do his law and order thang? Shit, man, that cool."

A cautious smile slowly crept into Ryan's voice. "Seth, you do know that you can't pull that off, right?"

Seth heaved a self-pitying sigh. "The playa act's not working for me?"

"Yeah, not so much."

"Well, hey, thought I'd give it a shot. You know, change it up a little."

Just from Seth's voice, Ryan could visualize him collapsed carelessly on a couch in the Harbor lounge, a mug in one hand, legs stretched out and sneakered feet propped on the coffee table. Somehow the image eased Ryan's own clenched muscles.

"My advice?" he replied. "Change it back, Seth."

"Huh. So now certain people are critics. Even though those same certain people pretended to be someone they're not on the phone today," Seth observed pointedly. "I'm thinking double standard here, dude."

Ryan closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Sandy's car on their way to lunch, trying to recapture that sense of buoyancy and untroubled play. "Got it, Seth," he said. "I wasn't funny. And you were pissed. We already covered all that."

"So right you weren't funny," Seth agreed decisively. "And don't say pissed, Ryan. Oh, wait—Mom's not around, so yeah, pissed it is. Actually more confused than pissed right now. You know, this morning when I said that you'd need to call me during the day? See, that was a joke. I figured Dad would keep you—okay, entertained is totally the wrong word, but busy at least. What's the deal, buddy?"

Ryan swallowed and steadied his voice. "Yeah, well," he said vaguely, "Sandy's in a meeting. I'm waiting for him. There's sort of nothing to do right now, so I thought I'd check and see if anything interesting happened at school today."

"If anything interesting happened at school?" Seth echoed incredulously. "Dude! You are so channeling Dad at the dinner table. And that, by the way? Is pretty damn scary." Ryan heard Seth muffle the phone and mutter something that sounded like "later" and "without me." Then his voice returned. "Okay, it's truth time, man. Why the call? Wait, make that calls, because if I remember correctly, we just talked, like, twenty minutes ago. You and Dad didn't get into an argument or anything, did you?"

Grinding a lump of dirt under his thumb, Ryan glanced at the prison door before answering. "We didn't argue. Honestly, Seth, your dad's with a client. But listen, if you've got a meeting or something--"

"Let me think. A meeting or something? Actually, Ryan, I have many somethings scheduled this afternoon. But I think I can spare you, oh, say, five minutes of my valuable time. Appropriate compensation to be arranged later, of course."

There was a brief silence.

"O. . . kay," Seth drawled. "And now we're down to four minutes and forty-five seconds. Ryan, you called me, remember? That should mean—and I know this is uncharted territory for you—that you start the conversation. With actual words."

"Right." Stuck for a subject, Ryan asked weakly, "So, did I miss anything at school today?"

"Hmm. And that was your second school-based question in three minutes, buddy. Although really, it's pretty much the same question, just phrased a little differently."

"Yeah, so? It's conversation."

"Totally bogus conversation. Ryan Atwood, requesting a Harbor update? Is bizzaroworld strange. I'm just saying." Seth's skeptical tone made it clear that he was squinting dubiously. "What did you think you might miss anyway?"

"I don't know, Seth. You're the one there."

"True!" Seth exclaimed. His attitude changed, vaulting to sudden enthusiasm. "That is so true, dude. I'm the one here, the embedded reporter if you will, coming to you live from the Harbor lounge." Seth deepened his voice, and Ryan could hear him moving, as if he were starting to pace the room. "It's a shame we don't have video transmission, Ryan, because the conditions here are dire and there's just no way to describe the chaos."

Ryan reached a hand behind his neck, kneading at a stubborn knot. "You're saying there's chaos in the Harbor lounge?"

"Words can't convey the devastation, Ryan," Seth claimed with a dramatic sigh. "The espresso machine broke down about thirty-five minutes ago and since then, people have been reduced to drinking regular coffee. Or, you know, any of the forty flavors of soft drinks, chai tea, or bottled water available. You can imagine the pain and suffering. I'm with one of the victims now . . . Young lady, can you tell us how you feel having to drink—what is that now? Oh God, it's plain water, isn't it?"

Summer's protest rang through the phone. "You're insane, Cohen, you know that? And give me back my water. Right. Now!"

"Ow!" Seth yelped, before he restored his newscaster voice. "Ryan, as you can tell, people here are on edge. There's the constant threat of violence as supplies dwindle—Summer, let go! Come on, woman, that hurts—"

Ryan heard the phone drop, a heated exchange as it seemed to change hands several times, and then Seth's breathless voice.

"I'm sorry, Ryan. The situation here is deteriorating rapidly and officials say we have to evacuate now . . . Right, Summer, I'm coming! . . . So, want me to call you back when I get home?"

"No, that's okay," Ryan answered. "Sandy's meeting should be over soon."

"Yeah?" Seth prompted, sounding abruptly uncertain. "You sure?"

"It's fine, Seth."

"But tonight you'll tell me what's really going on, right?"

For a moment, Ryan considered bluffing, claiming nothing was wrong, but Seth's voice, anxious and expectant, compelled the truth. "Yeah. I will," he promised. "See you later, Seth. And hey, say hello to Summer for me."

He hung up, shifting position uncomfortably as he tried to wedge himself into a sliver of shade.

Time limped on.

It felt to Ryan as if he had been waiting forever, although when he checked, he saw that Sandy had only been gone thirty-two minutes. Just as he started mulling whom to call next, his finger rejecting Marissa's number, the prison door swung open, and a woman stumbled out. She fumbled blindly for the banister, missing it and the first step as she started down the stairs. Instinctively, Ryan jumped to his feet, catching her just as she was about to fall.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

The woman wrenched herself away from him. "Leave me alone!" she hissed, her palms jerking up to ward him off. "Let go of me!"

"Sorry," Ryan stammered. "I'm sorry . . ." His voice trailed off into a shamed whisper, and he retreated, slowly and awkwardly.

The woman's face crumpled as she watched him. "Ah no," she moaned, circling his wrist with a shaky hand. "You were being nice, trying to help. I shouldn't have snapped at you, made you feel bad . . . It's this place, you know? My Gerald is here and . . . I just . . . I can't--"

Without warning, the woman sagged, her body heaving with sobs. For a moment, Ryan stood rigid. Then, careful not to move too close, he put a cautious arm around her shoulders, feeling his own throat constrict.

He didn't hear the door open a third time, or Sandy's sharp intake of breath.

"Ryan? Ryan?"

The sound of Sandy's troubled voice finally penetrated. Ryan looked up, his expression was glazed and desolate, one hand still clasped in the woman's, the other patting her back.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?" Sandy asked, his eyes darting from Ryan to the woman, who began mopping her face and trying to catch her breath.

Ryan shrugged helplessly and his voice was thick when he answered. "Yeah," he said. "I'm fine. But she's not."

Stepping between them, Sandy gently disengaged her from the boy's arms. He took a moment to cup the back of Ryan's neck, his fingers kneading tenderness and approval, before turning his attention back to the woman.

"Just give me a minute," he urged over his shoulder.

Ryan watched as Sandy walked the woman down the stairs, murmuring to her. He saw her fists clench, her face twisted with anguish, saw Sandy dig out a card and thrust it in her hand, saw her shake her head and try vainly to return it, saw Sandy's reassuring smile, his confident stance, the way he stood his ground until the woman tucked the card in her purse and nodded tearfully.

Just before she turned to go, the woman looked up at Ryan and waved a tentative apology. He took a shuddering breath and forced himself to return the gesture, although his own hand felt lifeless as he lifted it and fell almost immediately back to his side.

As soon as the woman was two yards away, Sandy bounded back up the stairs. "Mrs. Crespo told me to thank you for your help," he reported.

"I didn't do anything," Ryan objected. "You did, though, didn't you? Or you're going to?"

"Social Services has been threatening to take her kids. I just said I'd make a few calls." Sandy reached over and finger-combed Ryan's damp hair off of his forehead. "It's all set, kid," he declared quietly. "If you still want to, we can see Trey now."

Ryan's eyes darted up and back down again, too quickly for Sandy to read their expression.

"I still want to," he said.

TBC