Chapter 11: Signing the Papers
The tip of the ballpoint pen hovered a fraction of an inch above the signature line. The ink would make it official—acknowledging that my judgment had failed, that the fear driving my every waking moment for the past six months was not a shield protecting my daughter, but a cage I had built around her.
"Take your time, Mark," Sarah said quietly. Her voice lacked the sharp edge it had carried outside the school gates. There was only a weary, hollow kind of grace left in it.
I pressed the pen down. My signature looked jagged and hurried, the letters crowding together like cars stalled in an intersection. When I lifted the pen, the indentation in the paper remained deep and sharp.
Ms. Mendez pulled the form toward her, checked the boxes at the bottom, and stamped the corner with a heavy red ink seal. "That's the hardest part done. Your first intake session is scheduled for Tuesday evening at five o'clock. There's a parking lot around the back, and the entrance is private."
"Thank you," I muttered, though the words felt hollow. Gratitude wasn't the right emotion; it was more like the cold relief of a man who had finally stopped falling and hit the bottom.
We stepped back out into the waiting room, the heavy glass door hissing shut behind us. The fluorescent light seemed a little dimmer now, or maybe my eyes were just getting used to the gloom. Sarah stopped near the exit door, her hand resting on the push-bar.
"Are you driving back to the school to get your truck?" she asked.
"I have to," I replied, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. "The tow company called while we were in the office. They won't leave it in the drop-off zone past noon, or the city will impound it. And I can't afford impound fees on top of everything else."
Sarah hesitated, looking out the glass at the gray, overcast afternoon sky. "Do you want me to drive you over? My car is right out front."
"No," I said, shaking my head. "You need to go pick Lily up from the counselor's annex. She's expecting you. I can walk. It's only three blocks."
She searched my face for a long moment, looking for any trace of the erratic panic that had gripped me at dawn. Finding none, she gave a slow, minimal nod. "Call me when you get the truck sorted, Mark. Please."
May you like
"I will," I said.
She pushed through the doors, the cool autumn air rushing in for a second before the heavy panels sealed shut again. I stood alone in the lobby for a long minute, watching my reflection in the dark glass of the vending machine—a stubbled, tired man in a dark cotton shirt that had seen better days. Then I turned and walked out into the street.
