Archive of Our Own

Heyward’s not a perfect man. He’s not under any delusions about that shit. He works hard and he tries to do the right thing, but in the Cut, the right thing can be a little variable from time to time. He only cuts the corners that are okay to cut, and he trusts his gut about what’s right and wrong. He believes in hard work and doing right by people.

That’s how he runs his store. That’s how he is in his marriage. And it’s sure as hell how he’s raised his son. It doesn’t matter what the rest of the jackasses out there do. Heyward will do what’s right.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t make mistakes.

Heyward is, after all, only human.

He screws up sometimes. He gets it wrong.

And he’s never gotten it more wrong than he has with JJ Maybank.

-o-

Now, let’s be clear: JJ Maybank is an absolute shit of a child. He always has been, ever since the first day Pope brought him by the store. He swears, steals, and smokes, and he’s nothing but trouble.

If he was picking, he would never have picked for a boy like that to be so close to his own. But he doesn’t get to pick, it’s the thing, and Pope’s never fit in well and never brought friends around at all, not until JJ and The Routledge boy. You can train a child to work hard, stay in school, do the right thing. But you can’t force him to have friends, and Pope needs friends.

JJ and John B do all sorts of bad things, but they’re loyal to his boy.

That matters in life. Not just in the Cut, but life. It matters to a man, the friends you make. And Pope gets into more trouble since he started running with Maybank and his shit-head accomplice. But he’s also a lot happier.

In the grander scheme of things, Heyward decides that’s a good thing.

Not that he’s about to tell Pope that.

And he’s sure as hell never going to let JJ know.

The little shit would let it go to his head, and then Heyward would really have a problem.

-o-

Thing is, though, Heyward does have a problem.

See, JJ Maybank. He’s not just a shit. He’s shit. The kid comes from nothing, which means most people see the worst in him before he opens his damn mouth to prove them right. And it’s easier to hate the kid, for the profanity, for the disrespect, for the shoplifting, for the general mayhem.

He’s picking fights, you see. He sees the kid with a split lip more often than he doesn’t.

“It’s the Kooks,” JJ tells him with a flippant grin. “So many damn Kooks.”

That’s not the problem, though. As long as Heyward believed him, that’s something he can deal with.

The day he doesn’t, however, is when he realizes he can’t keep doing this anymore.

-o-

It’s not supposed to be like this today.

For Heyward, every day is a work day. He runs his own business, and turning a profit isn’t easy, even when he’s had the success he’s had. Success in the Cut ain’t like success in the Figure Eight. It just means that Heyward pays all his bills each month and has just enough left over to send his kid to special classes and pay for health insurance.

All it takes is working seven damn days a week and catering to every Kook whim.

But it’s a Sunday afternoon in the off season, and Pope’s at one of his study sessions over in Charleston, so it’s not supposed to be like this today.

With JJ Maybank waltzing in, easy as he pleases. Asking for Pope, wearing some damn inappropriate tank top with a flashy new shiner on his left eye.

“Is he here?” JJ asks, and he’s slurring his words a bit. Standing there, he seems to teeter, looking around. “Pope?!”

Heyward is engrossed in his supply log. He barely looks up, just enough to scowl at the blonde-haired boy. Ignoring him is usually better than engaging him. It pisses him off less.

“Pope ain’t here,” he says, marking off a fresh row to order more ice. “He’s got a special study session in Charleston. He’ll be gone all weekend.”

JJ pauses, like he’s thinking about it. Like he knows this but he can’t quite remember. Then, he seems to give up the thought and nods. “‘Kay,” he says, and his voice sounds even funnier now. He blinks slowly and turns to leave. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Heyward.”

It’s not right, though. JJ’s not right. The slight slur on his words, the way his eyes don’t quite focus. “Shit, son,” he snaps, following a few steps after him. “You better not be drunk or high in my store here—“

He reaches out to grab the boy, to turn the boy, to stare him down and set him straight. The child needs someone to teach him a lesson, a real lesson. The kind about action and consequences, about mistakes and getting it right. Someone needs to tell him – tell him so he gets it through that thick, dumb skull of his – that everyone makes mistakes. That’s human.

It’s what you do with those mistakes that makes you a man.

He doesn’t get a chance to say it, though. The touch – fleeting as it is – startles JJ. He turns back, color drained from his face. His eyes go completely blank and Heyward barely has time to think before the damn kid is slumping to the ground right in front of him.

He goes down hard, like a puppet with his strings cut.

“What the hell?” he says, and old as he is, he just barely catches the kid before he hits the ground. He’s lighter than Heyward expects, but it’s awkward as hell, holding a 15 year old boy like a ragdoll.

And what is he supposed to do? JJ is totally limp, face washed of its color. He gives him a shake.

“JJ? Talk to me, kid,” he orders, but there is panic rising in the back of his throat. “JJ!”

When there’s no response, Heyward curses again, and this time, he lowers JJ the rest of the way to the floor. He’s mindful of the kid’s head, easing him down onto the wood and gently settling his limbs in what seems to be a comfortable position.

For what? How the hell should he know? Heyward’s not a young man anymore. His brawling days are well behind him. He’s just trying to run a reputable business, provide for his family–

“JJ, you got to wake up for me, son,” he says. Not sure what to do, he taps the boy on the cheek. “JJ. JJ!”

There’s no response, though. No smart-ass reply. No diffident deflection. JJ’s out cold.

Or worse. For a horrible second, Heyward fears the worst, and he presses two fingers to the pulse point under JJ’s chin. It’s there – a little too fast, a little too weak – but what the hell does Heyward know about that. The kid’s alive, is all.

He’ll start with that.

He can’t end with that, though. The damn child is still out cold on his store floor, and Heyward’s the only one here. He thinks fleetingly to call for help, but he’s the most responsible adult in this area. And he’s pretty sure that JJ wouldn’t want to go to the hospital if he can help it.

That’s when he lets himself assess the rest of the kid’s condition.

Because it’s not just the black eye. JJ’s got a bloody raw lump under the wild mess of his hair and, when Heyward lifts up his shirt to see the damage, his chest is more bruised than not. On his ribcage, plain as day, is a boot-print-shaped bruise, settling into the skin.

Shit.

This boy’s clearly been in a fight today.

Instinctively, he looks at JJ’s hands, picking up the limp fingers with a note of surprise. There’s no bruising here. The knuckles aren’t split; nothing.

Heyward’s spent his whole life in the Cut. He knows what brawling looks like.

And this kid? He hasn’t been in no fight.

No, JJ Maybank has gotten his ass kicked.

It hardly makes sense. He knows this boy. He’s as quick to throw a punch as anyone – and jumpy as hell, too. There’s no one getting the drop on him. Who the hell would be able to get in that many punches without the kid so much as defending himself?

It matters, he thinks, but not as much as the fact that the boy hasn’t opened his eyes yet. Frowning, he reaches up to pat the kid on the cheek again. “JJ, come on!” he said, gruff enough to hide the fear starting to etch away at the inside of his gut. “Wake up!”

This time, it seems to work. JJ’s eyelids flutter, and his breathing stutters. His head dips to the side as he moans a little. The sound is small and more innocent than a shit like this has any right to. And then, finally, his eyes open, settling on Heyward for the first time since he dropped like a sack of damn potatoes right here on the store floor.

“Shit,” Heyward says, sitting back a little on his heels in utter relief. “Thank God.”

The boy still doesn’t look quite right – something in his gaze won’t fully focus – but Heyward can see the moment he realizes what’s happened.

Precisely one moment later, JJ tenses up. Flailing a little, he tries to get his hands beneath him to push himself off the ground. “Shit – sorry, Mr. Heyward,” he says, the words all in a rush as he struggles to get up while his coordination fails him. “I – sorry–”

“Whoa,” Heyward says, pushing down on JJ’s shoulders to stop his struggling. “You’re okay,” he says. “Relax, now. I don’t want you hurting yourself any more than you already are.”

JJ’s face has flushed red now, and he blinks hard and fast as he comes back to himself a little more. Embarrassment.

Fear.

“I’m fine,” he says, despite the fact that he just took a swan dive in Heyward’s store. He makes a nervous little sound as he tries to smile. “Just a little light headed.”

As if that explains the bruises all up and down his body – and not the other way around. “Son, you’ve had your ass handed to you,” he says flatly. “You probably have a concussion.”

JJ pales a little once more. “Nah, just a little run in with some Kooks,” he says, a little too fast, a little too easy. He smiles. A little too bright. “Guess I let them get the jump on me.”

Heyward might have believed him. For all the dumb-ass shit this boy does.

Except, he hasn’t got a mark on his hands.

And there’s a boot print on his chest.

Heyward’s expression twists. “Whatever the case, I think you need a little help,” he says. He sits back a little more, satisfied that JJ’s isn’t inclined to dart off now. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve his phone. “I can call your daddy to have him pick you up–”

This seems like the most reasonable option. It’s what he’d want someone to do if Pope were in this situation. And he’d sit down, check Pope over himself, and determine the best course of action. In the Cut, not everything warrants an ambulance and an ER visit, but that’s not Heyward’s place to decide for another father.

“No,” JJ says, voice no more than a squeak. He scrambles again, shoving himself away from Mr. Heyward with an unexpected force. Heyward slips back as JJ clambers to his hands and knees before getting up all in a rush. “No, no, sir. Please, don’t call my dad. Don’t call–”

He stops himself, pausing to take a breath. He swallows hard and seems to get control of himself while Heyward stares at him, dumbfounded.

“You don’t need to call my dad,” he says, and his voice is more controlled now, but it’s unusually quiet. Low and plaintive in a way he’s never heard from JJ before.

He’s not sure what to make of that. What to make of this loud obnoxious boy suddenly standing there like that in front of him.

“I really do think you might have a concussion, JJ,” he says. “Your dad would want to know.”

Even as he says it, he watches JJ flinch. Everything inside the boy seems to tremble, and Heyward feels his insides go cold.

That bootprint on JJ’s chest.

Is the size of a grown man in work boots.

Not a teenage boy.

And definitely not a Kook.

JJ has no defensive wounds.

JJ’s gotten his ass handed to him.

And Heyward is suddenly struck with the horrible realization of the thing he’s probably always known but never let himself think about.

He’s not sure what to say. He’s not sure what to do.

He’s still sitting on the ground, staring at JJ blankly when the boy lifts his eyes and smiles. “Really, I’m okay, Mr. Heyward,” he says. And he reaches out, offering Mr. Heyward a hand to help him up. He accepts the hand, trying to let himself be reassured by JJ’s renewed steadiness. “It’s not a big deal.”

Says the boy who lets nothing lie. Says the boy with a list of enemies a mile long. Says the boy who picks every fight and holds every grudge. Says the boy who will never stop resenting every time a Kook wins.

Says the boy who always had black eyes and split lips and shit.

Heyward finds his feet but can’t find his footing. Not when he finally understands JJ Maybank for the first time in all these years.

“JJ,” he says, the guilt churning in his gut. “If you need help–”

“No, all good now, thanks, Mr. Heyward,” JJ says, and he flashes his biggest, stupidest grin yet, even though he’s barely keeping himself upright. “I’ll get out of your hair, make room for paying customers and all–”

“No, JJ,” Heyward says, feeling his throat constrict a little more. He knows JJ has to understand the question. The boy ain’t dumb. But he seems keen not to answer it. “I’m asking if you need help.”

There’s a flicker in the boy’s face, just for a second. Something flashes in his eyes and something stiffens in his disposition. But it’s gone as fast as it comes, and Heyward sees the kid in a way he’s missed all these years. The tough guy persona, the flamboyant nonsense: it’s a facade. It’s a careful composure that kid has scraped together to hide something else, something real, something terrifying.

Something totally heartbreaking.

“Because if you need help,” Heyward says, slowly and carefully. “You can tell me, son. I’ll help make it right.”

He’s being sincere. He’ll call Peterkin. He’ll walk that boy down to the station himself. He’ll sign a statement and tell them everything he knows, every bruise, every rumor, every time he’s thought Luke Maybank was the scum of the earth. He’ll put on the record and make sure that boy never goes home again.

And JJ just keeps smiling.

The fakest smile he can. Plastered all over his face, split lip, busted nose, black eye, and all.

Like he’s been smiling like that for years.

His whole damn life, for all Heyward knew.

“You know me, Mr. Heyward,” he quips. “I’m always fine.”

-o-

Heyward doesn’t stop him.

He lets JJ walk right out of his store.

He doesn’t go after him. He doesn’t call the boy’s dad. He doesn’t call the cops.

He’s never thought of himself as a coward.

Not until right there, right there.

-o-

It’s a mistake, he tells himself. It’s not his fault for not seeing it sooner. It’s not his fault for not putting the pieces together. JJ ain’t his son, and he’s not his responsibility. Overlooking it is a mistake, nothing more, nothing less.

The question is: what is he going to do with it now?

That child is in danger.

That child doesn’t want help.

That child is too young to know what help looks like.

That child doesn’t have anyone else to look out for him.

That child is a shit who doesn’t want Heyward to interfere.

Mistakes are easy to make, in the end.

They are, Heyward figures, much harder to rectify.

-o-

JJ doesn’t show up later, and Pope doesn’t act like anything is amiss. He gets back from Charleston, and when he asks if he’s talked to JJ, Pope shrugs. “Yeah, a little,” he says. “We were supposed to hang out later, but he bailed on me.”

That sits heavy in Heyward’s stomach. He swallows. “No reason?”

Pope shrugs. “Who knows,” he says. “He said he’d catch up with me tomorrow.”

Pope is many things, but a good actor is not among them. His child will lie to him, yes. His child rarely lies to him well.

He’s not lying now.

Narrowing his eyes, Heyward knows he should probably drop it.

But he keeps seeing JJ drop bonelessly to the floor.

And he can’t get that boot print out of his head.

“I saw him at the store earlier,” he says, chewing the inside of his lip. His boy got his poor lying skills from him, to be true.

It doesn’t matter. He finds he has to ask the question.

“Is he okay?”

This question is peculiar enough that Pope looks up at him. “What?”

“JJ,” Heyward says, wishing like hell this conversation wasn’t as awkward as it was. “Is he okay?”

Pope is guarded now. He tips his head to the side as he gauges his response. “Did he not act okay?”

Heyward wets his lips, and realizes his mistake. Pope is worried that Heyward is mad at JJ, and Pope is set to deflect him in order to make sure they are still allowed to hang out. “He was fine, I think,” he tries to explain. “Nothing bad. But I don’t know. Something seems off.”

Pope is a little more relaxed now. He looks back at his work. “I mean, school’s getting hard and he’s been working a lot more hours. I think he’s been stressed.”

That’s a good point. It’s a true point.

But it’s not the point.

“I’m just concerned that JJ’s – well,” he starts and tries to come up with the words. “That he’s not fine.”

Pope looks up again, this time confused. “Did he say he wasn’t fine?”

“No, not at all,” he says. “But it looked like he’d been in a fight.”

The vague defensive look comes back. So, Pope does know – or at least, he suspects, too,.

“He said it was some Kooks,” Heyward continues.

Pope nods, a little too quickly. “You know JJ.”

This isn’t going how he wants. He looks at his son and wills him to understand, wills him to trust him, just this once when it comes to that boy. “So you think he’s fine? Nothing I need to worry about with JJ?”

Pope looks at him, blinking credulously. He seems to consider it before he finally shrugs. “I don’t know,” he concludes finally. He sounds like he means it. Like he honestly has no idea. “I mean, if JJ says he’s fine – then he’s probably fine.”

It’s not an invalid answer, is the thing. Pope is a smart kid, but he is just a kid. He may be the smartest kid in the Cut, but he’s still stupid the way all 16 year olds are stupid because they haven't been out on their own yet. They haven’t had to live with the consequences of their actions.

They haven’t had to be a man, plain and simple. Mistakes at 16 don’t count the same way they do when you’re 42.

So Pope’s considered the evidence and he believes that JJ is fine.

Maybe he knows better than Heyward. He should, given how close those boys are. Maybe this isn’t as bad as it looks. Maybe this isn’t even what he thinks it is. Maybe JJ Maybank is fine.

It’s certainly tempting. It’d be easier, sure. To take his son’s word for it.

He can’t get it out of his head, though.

The boy dropping like a sack of potatoes.

The way he’d flinched from his touch.

The panic on his face when Heyward had wanted to call his dad.

The bootprint bruised into his ribcage.

“What about JJ’s dad?” he asks.

At this, Pope startles even worse than before. He looks at his dad, momentarily like a deer in the headlights. It’s just for a second, though, and then he seems to reel it in. He looks down to play it cool.

That’s a reaction he’s worked on.

It’s one that’s taken practice.

Pope’s known a lot longer than today.

“I don’t know,” Pope says. He shrugs. “I don’t know him that well.”

Heyward presses. “And what does JJ say about him?”

Pope’s expression turns skeptical. “Not much,” he says. He sits up a little. “What is this about, anyway?”

It’s a tactic to turn the tables. They’ve been covering this up, Pope and his friends have. JJ probably put them up to it. They probably are doing this because they think it will protect JJ. Pope is looking for any way to say nothing.

His best friend is being beaten, and Pope doesn’t want to talk about it.

Shit.

He’s always thought he raised Pope better than that. He’s always thought Pope would do the right thing, even when it’s hard.

Of course, he’s not one to talk. He can’t make himself say it either.

Because he’s not sure? Because JJ denies it? Because Pope can’t lose a friend when he’s got so few? Because in the end it’s too messy? Because he’s got enough troubles and JJ’s not his son? Because the whole thing, all of it, is none of his damn business?

Because Heyward is a coward?

“Nothing, I guess,” he says, and he bites his lip. “And everything’s really okay with JJ?

Now, Pope looks at him.

Really looks at him.

He looks like he’s five years old again, asking why, why, why, why. “Why wouldn’t it be okay?” he asks.

LIke he wants to know.

Like he needs to know.

Like he needs to have his old man say it for him.

Because Pope’s just 16 and Heyward isn’t. Because Pope’s a child and Heyward is the adult here. Because Pope doesn’t know better and Heyward does.

Shit.

Why wouldn’t it be okay? Shit, Heyward’s got no idea. And he’s got enough of his own problems. The store always needs to be run, and he’s got deliveries. He’s got to deal with his fishermen, and he’s got to make sure he lives up to his contracts with the restaurants and homes on the Figure Eight. The bills need to be paid, and he’s got to save enough money to make sure that dumb-ass boy of his goes to college and does better than all of this.

So, he doesn’t have time to worry about JJ Maybank.

The kid says he’s fine.

So he’s fine.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s not the first time he’s lied to his son, and it won’t be the last. But it still tastes like ash in his mouth when he speaks. “I was just wondering, is all.”

-o-

When JJ does show up again, he’s tagging along with Pope. He walks into the shop like nothing happened, his eat-shit grin bigger than ever. The bruises have faded to yellow-green, and his split lip is nearly healed.

Heyward tries not to wonder if you can still see the bootprint.

He’s loud and obnoxious, making inappropriate jokes and cursing in front of Heyward’s customers. He’s got half a mind to shoo him out, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

Instead, he looks at the boys – Pope and JJ – and can’t think of anything to say. “What are you boys doing, then?” he asks finally.

“Meet up with John B, maybe,” Pope says. “Do some fishing on the Pogue.”

“Got to make some cash,” JJ says enthusiastically. “Or get some dinner. Either way, I’m good.”

It’s all boisterous and full of self confidence. So convincing that Heyward almost buys it.

But when Heyward talks to him, he doesn’t look him in the eyes.

“You boys need anything?” he asks, stomach twisting uncertainly. “For your boating venture, that is. You could take some supplies.”

Pope brightens. “Really?”

Heyward nods. “Sure,” he says. “And a snack or two.”

JJ gives a little whoop, following after Pope as they raid the fishing aisle. When they check out with the supplies, JJ has a bottle of soda, and he’s fiddling with a pen at the counter like everything’s fine, everything’s normal.

Like he didn’t pass out in that exact same place a week ago.

Like they both don’t know what’s under his shirt.

Heyward plucks a piece of candy off the shelf, giving it to the boy. “Here,” he says. “If you’re going to be in the sun, you’ll need some calories.”

JJ accepts it while Pope bags up the things they’ve taken. “Thanks, Dad,” he says. “Really.”

He nods absently. “Be safe today,” he says. He nods at Pope, and he reaches out to pat JJ on the shoulder.

JJ shies away from him, eyes still averted.

He doesn’t look back as he follows Pope outside, joking loudly about all the shit they’re going to do today, all the shit. Heyward watches them go.

Shit, Heyward watches them go.

JJ needs more than a few supplies and a piece of candy. Right? A full grown, responsible adult knows that. A mature, reasonable person knows that.

And it’s so damn easy. It’s easy to call. Peterkin knows him; Peterkin likes him. A little pushing, he could get that kid out of Luke Maybank’s house and someplace safe.

But the kid says he’s fine.

The kid acts like he’s fine.

The kid doesn’t have to look him in the eyes, and he sure as hell doesn’t have to be patted on the shoulder. The kid can decide when he’s fine.

Besides, Heyward has a bunch of deliveries today. Ultimately, JJ isn’t his responsibility.

That’s all, he tells himself, and puts it from his mind.

That’s all.

-o-

JJ makes it easy to not care.

He’s lazy and disrespectful. Even after Heyward’s generosity, he’s a pain in the ass and he’s a bad influence on Pope. He’s full of all the worst kinds of ideas, and he gets into constant trouble. Damn kid smells like weed and alcohol, and he’s skipping school again. He cracks jokes and swears so loud that Heyward has to kick his ass out of his store when the Kooks and Tourons are around. At the house, he sneaks food, and his wife shakes her head when he goes home.

“Is that child okay?” she asks, watching as the boys retreat out the front from her spot at the kitchen window.

She’s always been the more kind-hearted of the two of them. She shows her compassion in the proper way, gentle and kind. She’s a good woman, his wife. The best of him, if he’s being honest.

It’s not an idle question, then.

Not that it could be. Anyone who has met JJ Maybank has wondered the same thing.

Heyward joins her at the window, watching as JJ and Pope disappear down the street, jostling each other the whole way down. “Why do you ask?”

“Something about him is sad,” she remarks.

Heyward scoffs. “He stole all your leftover chicken from the fridge.”

She smirks at him, and she almost looks disappointed in him. “I put it someplace that was easier to steal.”

“He’s not our son,” Heyward mutters.

“The boy is hungry,” she insists. “As long as he’s in my house, he’ll be fed. That’s how we do things, baby. You know that.”

Yeah, Heyward hates to admit it. He does.

Or, he’s supposed to anyway.

-o-

The problem is: Heyward knows something about JJ. He knows something about Luke Maybank. He knows the truth that everyone thinks but never lets themselves say.

He knows it.

And he keeps it to himself.

Of all the mistakes Heyward has made in his long life, he thinks that one may be the worst.

-o-

Because he knows.

In the back of his mind, sure.

But in the pit of his gut, completely.

He knows when Luke Maybank shows up to the dock that night to take JJ home. He knows from the way JJ won’t lift his head to make eye contact with anyone now. He knows from the way Luke takes JJ by the arm, fingers so tight that his knuckles are white.

Heyward watches as they drive off, JJ making himself as small as he can in the passenger’s seat and Luke’s face set like stone.

He knows.

-o-

Parenthood is about priorities, though. You don’t survive in the Cut without remembering what’s important. Ain’t no one looking out for you and yours. That’s your job.

And his boy has gone and blown up his life in the last few days. Bailed on his scholarship. Done all sorts of illegal shit. Culminating in the loss of one of his best friends.

To call it a mess is an understatement.

Heyward can’t tell if should be pissed as hell or comforting his boy. He’s torn between grounding him for the rest of his life and taking him out for his favorite meal and ice cream.

In the end, he takes him home and tells him to shower up and get some rest. He sits in the living room while the shower runs and he waits until he hears Pope climb the stairs and walk across the floor of his bedroom.

Across from him, his wife sighs. “I’m going to bed,” she murmurs, shaking her head. “Tomorrow’s going to be worse.”

He smiles at her faintly, patting her hand as she squeezes his shoulder on her way out. “I’ll be in soon,” he tells her.

She hums a little. “No, you won’t.”

She’s right.

She usually is.

-o-

When the house has settled, he can still hear the sound of the storm dying outside. The wind creaks the windowpanes and Heyward gets to his feet. He thinks about going to bed, intends to go to bed, but he finds himself upstairs anyway. He hesitates outside Pope’s door. The boy’s 16; he needs his privacy.

Heyward doesn’t care in the end. He opens the door and stands in the dark, watching his child sleep. He used to do this when Pope was a baby, making sure he kept breathing all night long. It’s been years, but here he is. Needing that reassurance.

His boy is safe.

His boy is here.

His boy is home.

He’s got his boy back.

He doesn’t think about John B lost at sea. He doesn’t think about Sarah Cameron leaving her house on the Figure 8. He doesn’t think Kiara and how confused the Carreras must be that their little girl has chosen this.

He doesn’t think about JJ.

He doesn’t.

-o-

The next day is worse.

Pope brims with denial, fresh and hot. He insists they could be out there, they could have survived. They could be out there.

Heyward has him do the dishes and clean up his room. He helps his mother with the laundry and writes a thank-you letter to the scholarship committee because that’s just how you do things, son.

He doesn’t tell him that sometimes life isn’t fair, that sometimes it doesn’t give you what you want. He doesn’t tell him that sometimes you can do everything right and everything still turns out wrong.

He doesn’t tell him that actions and consequences are not always a direct correlation.

He doesn’t tell him that you can do the right thing with the best intentions and still have it be a mistake.

He doesn’t tell him that’s part of what being a man is about.

Living with mistakes you didn’t mean to make.

-o-

The third day, Pope breaks. He sleeps late and when Heyward goes to get him out of bed, he finds him curled up on his side.

“You okay, son?” he asks.

Pope sniffles but doesn’t get up. “Is he really dead?” he says instead.

Heyward sighs, not sure what to say. He lumbers across the floor, standing at the edge of the bed. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Pope squeezes his eyes shut. “He can’t be dead.”

It hurts.

When your child hurts, it hurts you. That’s what loving your child means.

At least, it should.

“Have you talked to Kiara?” Heyward asks instead. “JJ?”

Pope opens his eyes again. “Kie’s parents have her on lockdown. She’s pissed. Wants to go look.”

That sounds about right. “And JJ?”

“I haven’t heard from him.”

That doesn’t sound right. “Not a word?”

Pope shakes his head. “Not a word.”

-o-

Ultimately, he decides to let Pope rest. His wife makes him chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream, and they fish out one of the books they’d planned to give him for his birthday in a few months. He heads to work, promising his wife he’d bring home something for dinner just to change things up.

Now that the storm is over, the store’s all sorts of busy. People are buying supplies and restocking their kitchens. He’s behind on his deliveries, but there’s nothing he can do about it. He apologizes to his customers, and just says, “Kind of crazy stuff going on right now.”

Most people nod in agreement. A few of them belabor it with them. Some of the Kooks click their tongues like they’re not surprised. But there’s a lady in the afternoon, buying cat food, that looks bereft.

“And is your boy okay?” she asks. “I know he runs with all of them.”

He smiles politely. “He’s upset, but safe and sound.”

She nods sadly. “It’s just so tragic. So young.”

Denial is a funny thing, it seems. He finds it swelling up inside him. “That Routledge boy knows how to live at sea. He could be alive.”

“Oh, I know,” she replies, and she tips her head to the side, giving him a funny sort of look. “I was talking about the Maybank boy.”

This is not the answer he is expecting. “JJ?”

The woman is gathering up her bags. “Yes, that’s his name.”

When she doesn’t seem inclined to tell him, he finds he has to ask the question. “What’s wrong with JJ?”

Even though he suspects he’s known the answer all along.

-o-

Now that he’s looking, it’s not hard to find out what happened. The truth rarely is hard to see when you’re looking for it.

As if that’s not condemnation for a man like him.

-o-

As it turns out, JJ Maybank is in the hospital. He was brought in last night, beaten damn near to death. The boy’s fighting for his life in the ICU. The doctors aren’t sure if he’s got permanent damage. The doctors aren’t even sure he’ll make it.

There are no suspects.

-o-

Telling Pope is hard.

No, telling Pope is damn near impossible. His son is already broken over the loss of John B – not to mention his scholarship. When he has to explain, in painful detail, that JJ may not survive, he’s not sure what to expect.

Tears?

Anger?

To his surprise, Pope takes the news stoically. His face is pinched, but he doesn’t look surprised. He nods once, and then he nods twice.

“I need to see him.”

Dear Lord Almighty, as if it’s that simple. “Of course.”

-o-

He’s quiet when he drives Pope in, and he’s awkward as he asks the receptionist where JJ Maybank is. He’s been to this hospital more than once in his life, but this is the first time they’ve directed him to the ICU ward.

When they get upstairs, the nurse is sweet who talks to them, who says JJ is very injured, and they need to be quiet, they need to be careful. Don’t touch him, not while he’s in such a delicate state.

It’s hard to imagine, JJ in a delicate state. The whole time Heyward has known him, he’s had the force of a hurricane – and he leaves destruction like one, too. He’s reckless and stupid about it all, but that might be to be expected. Hurricanes need to blow any way they can; they really can’t help themselves.

Pope looks anxious about it all, like he may chicken out. Heyward’s not about to force him, but he knows that he has to go in.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells Pope. “I’ll be right there with you, and it’ll be okay.”

Heyward doesn’t like lying to his son.

But the second they go inside, a crowded little room, stuffed with equipment, JJ Maybank makes a liar out of Heyward after all.

-o-

See, Heyward is not a perfect man. He’s never pretended to be.

The thing is, he’s always through himself to be a good man.

That’s a distinction he’s held onto, one he’s let define him in the Cut and Figure Eight alike. He’s never had to doubt that about himself, not one.

Until he sees JJ on the hospital bed.

And Heyward doubts everything.

-o-

The boy is a mess.

That’s the short of it.

Heyward is no doctor, so he can’t say for sure all the things wrong with JJ, but it’s easy to see it’s bad.

The boy looks more dead than alive. They got him there, hooked up to monitors and wires. They’ve put a tube down his throat, another up his nose. His chest is heavily bandaged with a bloody tube snaking out from under the covers. His arm is in a splint, and his face is so badly swollen that he’s hardly recognizable. There are hand marks circling his neck, like someone has tried to wring him out like a damp towel.

Shit, he thinks. Someone tried to kill this child.

Shit, shit, shit.

Not anyone.

Exactly one someone.

Heyward knows who, knows who immediately, no question, no doubt.

It’s the first time in his life he’s felt like the bad guy.

-o-

In his shock, Pope seems determined to make this a bedside vigil. He sits next to JJ, looking stricken. He just sits there, watching as the machines keep the other boy breathing. Pope’s just lost one friend to the sea, and now he has to sit here and watch the other way fight for his life. Getting his son back to normal is going to be harder than he’s let himself think so far.

As if he can section it out like that. Like he can just focus on Pope and not account for the fact that these other kids are part of him. He’s ranted and raved about Pope getting new friends, better friends – but it’s not that easy.

Sooner or later, Heyward has to accept that these kids didn’t force his son to throw away anything. His son chose these kids and he threw it away willingly for him. Because he’s listened to Heyward all these years and taken it to heart: family is everything.

He’s given up everything for his boy over the years.

Why is he so surprised to see him do the same?

He might have to ream the boy out, truthfully, were he not so proud of him for it.

-o-

Even so, it’s a lot.

To see Pope so despondent. To see JJ so devoid of life.

He makes it about thirty minutes before he excuses himself. To use the bathroom. To get food. He makes a half dozen excuses that Pope doesn’t listen to. On the bed, JJ doesn’t move.

In the hall, he has to stop and let himself breathe. There’s something suffocating about it all, like JJ’s not the only one who might be dying here. At the nurse’s station, he sweet talks one of the nurses, who says that JJ’s condition is critical but stable. He’s in a coma, and they’re monitoring him, and he’s getting the very best care.

These are ways of saying they’re doing everything they can.

These are ways of saying it might not be enough.

-o-

When he finally gets his mettle up to head back to JJ’s room, he finds Shoupe just leaving. No doubt, as acting sheriff, Shoupe deals with difficult shit all the time. It’s a harder job than Heyward’s. You get more grief and less reward, to be sure.

He could smile and nod, and leave it at that. But JJ’s lying inside the room on life support. So he asks: “Do we have any idea what happened to him?”

Shoupe gathers a breath, and Heyward can see it’s pressing heavy on his mind. “He’s been unconscious since they brought him in,” he says. “And, uh – we have no witnesses.”

He says it like that, a simple recitation of the facts. Heyward hears it, though. What Shoupe doesn’t say.

What Heyward doesn’t say.

“And no ideas?” Heyward asks, because what the hell – he’s a shopkeeper. He delivers groceries and does his best to keep his dumb-ass child from ruining his life. Solving crimes is Shoupe’s job, not his.

“Well,” Shoupe says, and he’s posturing well and good now. “The kid has a lot of people pissed at him. He’s got a lot of enemies for a 16 year old.”

That’s not an angle he’s considered. He frowns, because it makes sense – and still sounds entirely wrong. “Kooks?”

Shoupe shrugs noncommittally. “There’s talk about the local drug crowd, too,” he says. “And even if it’s not someone he’s pissed off, it could be someone connected to his father.”

Right. Connected to his father.

Heyward shuts his mouth and doesn’t trust himself to speak for a moment. Shoupe stands there and doesn’t elaborate.

“Where is Luke?” he finally asks, when he can make his mouth form the words.

Shoupe’s expression gets even more guarded than before. “Work,” he says. “He’s the one who brought JJ in last night. Said he found him unconscious, no idea what happened.”

This is almost a reasonable-sounding story. Heyward isn’t sure why he finds it so unbelievable.

Yes, he does.

He just doesn't want to admit it.

Denial gets him where he wants. It’s getting JJ nowhere.

“He called the cops to report it?” Heyward asks.

At that, Shoupe looks like Heyward may be a crazy person. “No, the hospital called it in when they saw just how bad it was. Somebody nearly killed that kid.”

That’s how they all say it. That’s how Heyward’s been saying it. No doubt, that’s what the cops, teachers – all of them had said for years.

Somebody.

As if they don’t all know who.

“And you just let him go to work?” he asks with a frown.

Shoupe can only shrug. “Says he can’t lose his job, especially with the medical bills here,” he explains. “He’s been here on and off, checking on the kid.”

He can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“He’s his father,” Shoupe says.

He blinks at the man, not sure why this is all so hard all of a sudden. The way people choose to be blind is a crazy thing, and maybe he’s always thought someone else would do it if it needed to be done. It didn’t have to be him.

And maybe it doesn’t have to be Shoupe either.

But, then, who?

Shoupe bites his lower lip and shifts his stance as he stares Heyward down. “You got something to say, Heyward?”

It sounds brusque, but it’s not an accusation. Hell, if anything, it’s an invitation. For someone to finally say it.

And will it be him? Should it be him? After all, all he knows is a work boot from two years ago and a boy afraid to be touched. That’s not evidence. That’s not a clear condemnation to call a man a monster.

But his son has lost one best friend and he can’t lose another, and JJ’s had every chance in the world to ask for help.

And it shouldn’t have to be him.

He draws a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Damn it, Shoupe,” he says. “I know you’re thinking it, too. I think we’ve all thought it for years now. But we’re all just afraid to say it.”

“To say it, we have to back it up,” Shoupe says. “The kid’s 16.”

That’s it, right? That’s why it matters. “And for all that he likes to pretend otherwise, that means he is just a kid.”

Shoupe inclines his head. It’s almost an invitation. “If you want to make a statement–”

It figures. The ball is in his court. Cowardice seems endemic in these parts.

And why? Who is he? JJ is nothing but his kid’s no-good friend. JJ’s more trouble than he’s worth, honestly, and Heyward owes him nothing. He’s got enough to do, enough to worry about.

What would he even say?

I think Luke Maybank hits his son.

I think Luke Maybank nearly killed his son.

I think JJ Maybank is going to die if we don’t do something.

The words all die, though. The shrivel up, right there on his tongue. He can’t make his mouth form them, not a single one.

“I guess not,” he says instead.

Shoupe nods. He waits and when Heyward doesn’t say anything else, he nods again.

“We’ll keep looking, then,” he says. “And maybe JJ can tell us what happened when he wakes up.”

That should be that, really. That’s supposed to be that.

But Heyward can’t get it out of his mind. He can’t let it go. He can’t. “He’s still just a kid.”

Shoupe inclines his head. “If you want to make a statement–”

Heyward usually is a man of integrity.

But this time, God help him, he lets it go.

-o-

Heyward defers, excusing himself to go join Pope again. This is his intention, but the unintended consequence is that he has to go sit with JJ, too.

And that’s still the worst.

JJ’s usually full of energy, always getting into mischief. He’s swearing or picking something up, stealing shit or breaking something.

Now, he just lays there.

Like the life’s been beaten right out of him.

Heyward just sits there, too. Tells Pope he’s sorry, it’s okay, he’s sorry.

Like JJ didn’t steal his dad’s boat, get it sunk, and then go home with him a few nights ago.

Sure, sure.

Not like any of that.

JJ breathes through a tube, and Heyward stands there with empty promises and blind reassurances.

He’s sorry, it’s okay, he’s sorry.

Not like he don’t know exactly what happened.

-o-

They stay until the nurses kick them out. Pope texts Kiara on and off, but the other teen can’t get away from her parents. The Carreras have higher standards than Heyward, it seems. Or they just don’t know what he knows.

Or they do know, and they don’t want to face it.

He kind of wishes he was like the Carreras.

He kind of wishes he was like Big John Routledge, who’s still missing at sea and doesn’t have to do any of this on account of everyone thinking he’s dead.

He kind of wishes he was anyone but himself.

Too good to turn away.

Not good enough to fix it.

-o-

Pope drags his feet as they leave. The nurses tell them when visiting hours start tomorrow. “Until then, family only,” she says.

“But his dad–” Pope starts.

Heyward ushers him out the door.

-o-

Pope is quiet on the drive home. He sits in the passenger seat, staring out at the road ahead. When they get back and parked, he doesn’t get out.

Heyward sighs and kills the engine. He waits a few moments and then looks at his son.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Pope doesn’t look at him. “I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”

That’s a fair point, probably, and Heyward doesn’t have a way to make that better. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

“We told him to steal the Phantom,” he says. Now he looks at his father. “We made him do it.”

He wets his lips and is careful in his response. “I don’t know JJ well, but I know him well enough. Ain’t nobody who makes that boy do anything he hasn’t set his mind to anyway.”

Pope, though, shakes his head. “It’s not like that. He’d do anything for his friends. He’d do anything for his family.”

He’s not talking about Luke, either. Funny, how that is. This is all about Luke, and there ain’t a soul around talking about him.

“You’re not responsible for him,” Heyward says instead, because he wants Pope to understand that the world is hard. That you have to look out for yourself. That in a world where everyone is drowning, you can only fit so many people in your lifeboat. It’s not wrong to choose yourself.

It’s not.

Pope’s expression is pained. “If not me, then who?” he asks. “John B is–”

His voice cracks, and his entire countenance threatens to give.

“--gone,” he says. “And his dad–”

They don’t say it. Pope doesn’t say it. Heyward doesn’t say it.

No one ever says a damn thing.

Pope’s eyes are brimming now. “You don’t know how much he’s done for me,” he says.

There’s something there, something Heyward doesn’t, or maybe just another thing he doesn’t want to know. It’s easy, after all, to think it’s all JJ’s fault. It’s easy to blame him for dragging his son into the muck.

But maybe it’s not always his idea. Maybe JJ is so desperate to be loved that he’d do anything for his friends. Maybe Pope sticks with him because they’re as much a family as anything, as much as Heyward and Mrs. Heyward, and way more than Luke Maybank could ever hope to be.

Heyward doesn’t say shit because he’s a coward.

Pope doesn’t say it for another reason.

He wants to ask, but he probably doesn’t have a right to know. Not with the secrets he’s keeping.

“Then, I guess you can return the favor,” he says. “He’s going to need help, you know. Getting back on his feet.”

He focuses on the recovery, the one that doctors aren’t talking about yet. He doesn’t talk about the coma, about the machines, about the fact that critical but stable means he might not make it yet.

Pope draws himself together, eyes still wet.

“I’ll take you back there,” he promises. “First thing tomorrow. And every day after, until he gets to go home, okay?”

Finally, Pope nods. Small. Uncertain.

Nodding all the same.

Because Pope will contend with his guilt.

And Heyward will struggle to contend with his.

-o-

The next day isn’t any better. JJ still hasn’t moved, and there are still no leads. Luke Maybank showed up at some point in the night, but he’s gone when Heyward gets there.

It’s for the best, he decides.

He’s not sure he could stomach seeing him.

Work boots on his feet.

Knuckles bruised and split.

-o-

JJ is in a coma for approximately four days. When he wakes up, not much changes. He’s so heavily medicated that there’s no telling what’s wrong with the boy. Ultimately, the doctors think he’s going to live. They think he’ll recover.

There’s a whole list of things for his physical recovery, and it sounds all well and fine.

But it doesn’t sound like what the boy really needs.

-o-

Once JJ is awake and coherent, the cops do a formal interview. Shoupe takes care of it personally, and Heyward’s only there to pick up Pope from the hospital after visiting hours, really. Pope wants to wait until he can say goodbye to JJ, and since the boy’s father is still hardly around, it seems cruel to say no.

When Shoupe comes out, rubbing the back of his neck, Heyward knows it didn’t go well.

“He doesn’t remember,” he says softly to Heyward, who waits until Pope goes back in the room to say goodbye for the night. “With the amount of damage and the severity of his head injury, the doctors say it’s no surprise–”

“He doesn’t remember anything?” Heyward clarifies, letting his skepticism linger.

Shoupe swallows. “He can’t make an ID.”

“And you have no leads?” Heyward presumes, feeling the bile churning in his gut.

Shoupe looks helpless. “There’s nothing I can do.”

They’ll all keep saying that.

Until the day that boy needs a funeral and not a hospital.

-o-

Heyward’s made the decision, not to get involved, that is. He’s not going to interfere. The authorities will do their job, and Pope will be there for JJ as he gets back on his feet. This is how it is. This is just how it is.

But he’s the one who has to take Pope to the hospital. He checks Pope in because he’s a minor, walks him back to the ICU ward to see how JJ’s recovering. The bulky bandages, the machines, the cuts and bruises – they start to look better. JJ is awake more and more.

Heyward, though, is not involved at all.

-o-

Pope worries, still. He should be thinking about getting another shot at the scholarship, but he’s spending all his time at the hospital or stuffed up in his bedroom, reading websites about traumatic brain injuries and shit.

Because JJ’s recovery is slow. Pope doesn’t say it, but it’s not easy for any of them. JJ usually bounced back quickly, but he’s struggling this time, and after losing John B, Pope is scared shitless and trying not to show it.

Little Kiara Carrera is over a lot when she finally gets away from her folks, and they’re quiet as they sit together, holding hands, whispering to each other.

“JJ’s going to be okay,” Pope says.

“Yeah,” Kiara agrees. “I mean, he has to be.”

Heyward thinks about what it is to be young, what it is to believe. Belief is different than denial, even if sometimes they look kind of the same.

The steadfast determination that everything – everything – is okay.

-o-

Heyward doesn’t know how much he believes these days.

But denial–

Shit, he’s got that one down.

-o-

It’s Pope who asks him.

“JJ’s getting out of the hospital, today.”

“That’s good,” Heyward says, as benignly as he can. He’s not been charting the progress. He’s not been counting the days. He’s just not.

Pope swallows, hedging. “I thought we could be there. Take him home.”

Heyward frowns at that. “But what about his father?”

“The paperwork’s already signed,” he says quickly. Pope swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “He’s got to work.”

That sounds like bullshit is what it sounds like.

That also sounds better than the alternative that none of them are talking about.

“We just have to give him the ride,” Pope continues quickly, going on a mile a minute as if he’s been practicing this pitch all morning. “Kiara’s getting a place for him at the Chateau, and we already stocked up on supplies supplies–”

Heyweard narrows his eyes. “But his father–”

“Is on a double shift,” Pope says, even quicker than before. “He took a job on one of the fishing charters. He won’t be back until the weekend. Kie and I still stay with him at the Chateau until he gets back on his feet. Until – his dad–”

That’s not a thought to finish, and that’s fine.

Even so, Heyward’s not sure how anyone at the hospital has agreed to that nonsense, but there’s a special kind of exception for people like Luke Maybank. Kooks can use their privilege to get anything they want. The shit-scum of the Cut can use the fact that no one cares about what happens to them for much the same result.

That’s probably great for Luke.

But JJ’s still going to need a ride home.

And Heyward may not be a perfect man, but he’s not a monster.

“Sure,” he says. “Let me get the truck ready.”

-o-

Over the last few weeks, he’s seen JJ in all states of bad. In the coma, the boy had been unnaturally still and somehow drained of life. The recovery phase had been no better, watching the boy stutter and slur, not able to say his own name or get himself out of bed. By all accounts, he’s made remarkable progress.

And it’s still bad.

JJ is clearly ready to get the hell out, and he suspects the boy would have ripped out his own IV and left without permission if someone didn’t sign his discharge papers. As it is, he looks absolutely miserable when Heyward and Pope show up, and he alternates between hyperactivity and restlessness the whole time.

The nurses are nice about it, even when JJ is sullen and straight up rude. They go over the aftercare instructions in some detail, but the boy’s eyes are glazed over the entire time. No doubt, he doesn’t hear a word.

The bruises are fading and the cuts are healing. JJ walks out on his own two feet, grinning in relief as they step outside.

“Finally,” he says. “I thought I’d never get out of there.”

Heyward bites his tongue.

As if the hospital is the thing this child needs to be leaving really.

-o-

It’s probably a little questionable, all this. Taking this boy out of the hospital and delivering him to a vacant home with nothing but two teenagers to take care of him. The alternative of dropping him off at his father’s home is less palatable, though, and Heyward trusts his son in this: JJ will be taken care of.

It’s what Pope wants. It’s probably what JJ wants, too.

If they weren’t idiot kids, that might be reassuring.

But they are idiot kids.

And it’s not all that reassuring.

He parks on the drive, and Pope goes on ahead to get things ready with Kiara. JJ moves to follow, and Heyward hesitates before getting out of the truck and moving around to the side. He hesitates as JJ gets his footing, and he doesn’t say anything as the boy takes an extra long second to steady himself before closing the door.

He doesn’t like how unsteady JJ looks, but he’s got no business touching the boy. Instead, he hovers awkwardly a step behind him as they make their way up the path to the front porch. At the foot of the stairs, Heyward stops himself. He won’t go in, he decides. It ain’t his place.

He’s come this far, and this is all he’s entitled to.

Unless–

He bites his lip and hesitates. He looks at JJ, the fading bruises, the healing cuts. He still walks with a limp, hunched over as he guards the still tender ribs.

Unless JJ wants him to.

Not that he expects the boy to ask.

He has to let him know he can, though.

“You good to stay here?” he asks.

“The Chateau?” he asks. He’s still a little breathless when he talks. A little slow. “Practically a home away from home. I’ll be fine, sir.”

He might have been able to leave it at that, but the sir kills him. JJ’s struggling to put one foot in front of the other, and he throws up the perfect front for Heyward, like everything’s all okay.

He stops them at the bottom step, and he can hear the other kids inside. He turns until JJ looks at him and he finds just enough courage to speak. “You can stay with us, too, if you want,” he says. “Mrs. Heyward wouldn’t mind. You could stay as long as you want.”

JJ gives him a funny look, like he’s not quite sure what to think of that. The entire time he’s known JJ, they’ve had an antagonistic relationship, and it’s no surprise that this child has trust issues with adults. And still, somehow, he says, “I appreciate the ride, Mr. H, but I’m okay.”

As if that’s it.

It’s the same lie JJ’s been telling all his life, no doubt. The same lie that every other person has accepted at face value, whether they believe it or not. Some might not know. Some might choose not to know. Some might be cowards like Heyward, knowing and doing nothing.

“Son,” he says, as seriously as he can. “You don’t need to lie to me.”

He wants to say: because he knows already, because he’ll protect him now, because he should have protected him a long time ago.

He wants to say: none of this should have happened.

He wants to say: we can make it right.

He wants to say: how damn sorry he is.

JJ blinks, but he doesn’t flinch. “No lies,” he says. “Nothing is different. Same old, same old.”

The horrible part is that JJ is telling the truth. This is normal to him. Old hat.

This kid, this child, has been beaten by his father for years, and Heyward has let it happen.

He shakes his head, not sure how he’s kept it in this long. “I should call the cops.”

JJ’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Your dad, JJ,” he blurts, the words just coming out. “Your own father..”

JJ’s eyes widen a little, and he trembles a little to hear Heyward finally say it. He’ll do it, he thinks. He’ll pull out his phone right now and do it.

But just as fast as JJ registered the shock, Heyward sees his self control come back to him. “The cops won’t help,” he says, and his voice is lower than normal. There’s no humor in it now.

“I can make them help,” he says. “Hell, I’ll call DCS myself–”

This time, JJ flinches like he’s been hit, like Heyward has reared back and slapped him across the cheek. His face goes white, and his mouth snaps shut, and Heyward knows he’s lost his case.

Shit, he’s lost the kid entirely.

“I’m not going in the system,” he says, almost defiant. No, not defiant. Desperate.

So Heyward says it, says it all. “It’s got to be better than home.”

JJ shakes his head. Shakes it with a vigor that doesn’t seem possible for his fragile frame. “I just got to make it another year and a half,” he says, voice no more than a whisper now. “That’s all. A year and a half.”

Well, shit. That’s not a cry for help, but it should be. The boy is counting down the days, like he thinks he can survive it.

Like he thinks that’s an acceptable solution.

He nearly died here.

And all he can do is say he has to last another year and a half.

A year and a half – without his old man killing him.

“There are ways they can help you,” he says, because he has to say it. God help him, he needs to say it.

“I can’t do the system. I can’t go to the mainland. I can’t leave the OBX,” JJ says, the words tumbling out one after another. “I can’t leave Pope and Kiara and–”

And John B, he doesn’t say. That’s the name on his tongue, but it doesn’t come out. As much as JJ is a friend to Pope, everyone knows John B and JJ are a pair. A set, if you will. You don’t get one without the other.

But John B is gone, presumed dead just like his old man.

Pope has taken it hard.

No doubt, JJ has taken it worse.

“Please,” JJ says, and he’s actually asking now. Damn near begging, about as genuine and honest as he’s ever seen the boy. “Don’t make me leave the OBX. Please don’t make me leave.”

He wants to tell the boy that there are worse things than leaving. He wants to explain to the kid that there are places, people – a whole world out there – beyond the OBX. He wants to help this child understand that what he has now might not be better than what’s out there.

But JJ’s mom left him when he was young. His father’s been beating him for God knew how long. And all JJ had was this place, these people. The tough guy, the self-reliant asshole. The smart-ass kid who don’t need no one, no how – it’s the act of a child who’s never been allowed to learn better.

It’s the coping mechanism of a kid who’s had nothing else – not a single damn thing – to fall back on.

JJ’s right. They would send him to the mainland. And there’s no way in hell this boy would know what to do with that. He’d kick and scream every step of the way, and even if he got a good family to look out for him, there are 16 years to undo. You can’t teach a child to love in two years when he’s been taught wrong the last 16.

It’s not fair, not a single bit of it. Maybe if Heyward had acted sooner. Maybe if he’d taken interest back when the kid was young. Maybe he could have made a difference.

But JJ’s gone and made his family. JJ’s gone and found his safe space. It’s haphazard and cobbled together, and Heyward suspects it could still all fall apart in a split second, but Luke Maybank has taken too much from that child.

Heyward can’t bring himself to take the rest of it, too.

“Is that really what you want?” he asks, almost hoping JJ says no.

But JJ’s eyes are wide and earnest. Still as desperate as ever. He nods.

And it’s a horrible thing, right? JJ has spent his whole life not getting what he wants, not even getting what he needs. That kind of thing messes you up, messes you up worse than Luke Maybank on a damn bender.

Luke may not have to kill the kid.

He may just convince the kid to do it himself, one way or another.

But Heyward can’t fix that.

He can’t make it right, because it’s more than a place to stay for a few nights and a call to the police. Is it fair to say JJ has to save himself?

Hell, no.

But if any of this were fair, they wouldn’t be here at all.

“Please, Mr. Heyward,” he says. “Let me go.”

And Heyward does.

-o-

He lets the boy go.

Into the Chateau, with Pope and Kiara. Three days later, he goes back home. Pope and Kiara don’t have a choice. Heyward does, but he lets him go anyway.

Let’s him go home.

Right back to his daddy.

It’s what the kid wants.

Even if it’s not what he needs.

-o-

Heyward tries to move on. He tries not to think about it. He’s got plenty of other shit to do; he doesn’t need to worry about JJ.

So it figures, then.

All he can think about is JJ.

It vexes him, thinking of the Maybank house. It’s hard to grapple with the man Luke Maybank is.

The man Heyward himself is.

At night, when he can’t sleep, he thinks about JJ collapsing on the floor. While he’s waiting on customers and placing orders for the Kooks in the Figure Eight, he thinks of seeing the child on life support. When he’s doing a grill out, serving up big for a party, he thinks of standing on the front lawn of the Chateau, hearing JJ say he’s only got a year and a half left.

And when JJ comes around, all smiles and bullshit like nothing’s happened, he thinks of a man’s bootprint on his chest.

Mostly, though, he hears himself telling Shoupe he’s got nothing to say.

Nothing to say at all.

-o-

Heyward can’t move on, but JJ seems fit to. In the fall, the kids start school again, and JJ’s back to his usual antics. He still smells of weed and alcohol, and he skips school and never does his homework. He swears around the customers, and pesters Pope to blow off work and come out with him.

Heyward still tells Pope he’d be better off with better friends.

There’s no bite to it, though. There’s no force behind it. JJ’s not a friend, after all. To Pope, he’s family.

So, then, he’s family to Heyward, too. He ain’t going to say it. He’s not going to act like it. He won’t let the boy know.

But he won’t kick the kid out. He won’t refuse him free snacks at the store. He’ll hire him for odd jobs. He’ll always be welcome at the house, no matter how much he swears and smokes.

This is, he knows to his own detriment, the very least he can do.

-o-

It’s not an easy thing, that year and a half. JJ’s counting down the days, and Heyward does, too. They go slow, and every time the kid comes to the store with a fresh shiner, he feels like he’s making a mistake all over again.

See, Heyward likes to think he’s a good man.

He tries to be.

He wants to be.

God forgive him, then. He never tells the cops about Luke Maybank. He never makes sure JJ is safe.

But he does his best to make sure he is happy, in his own way. He does his best to make sure he is whole as best he can. He does his best to show the boy that there’s something else out there, something better.

He does his best to believe that JJ doesn’t have to be his father.

Because they’re all broken men, in the end.

They’ve all made mistakes.

It’s what you do after those mistakes that makes you the man you are.