Page 18 of Second Story

“A time what?”

“A time capsule. It’s a box that our students are filling, and that we’ll bury for future students to dig up. Some have added stories or pictures.” He whispers like Lenny. “I’m pretty surethere are some confessions inside it too, things the children here want to leave in the past. That’s what we do here at Glynn Harber. We take care of old hurts so our students can move on without them.”

That thumps me straight in the chest, punching where I’m already bruised and battered.

The padre can’t notice that he just summed up what I want most. He pulls an envelope from a pocket. “Everyone here has one of these to fill up, like students did here more than fifty years ago. That’s why we’re burying new ones, because we found messages from part of our school family that had been all but forgotten.”

Something creaks to life behind my ribs at Lenny hanging on every word this padre tells him, his eyes wide mirrors of Mum’s. He finds his voice again to sound just like her. “Families don’t forget each other. Even if they can’t live together.”

“No,” the padre says oh so gently. “Family is always with you, right here.” He crosses his heart with his free hand, which Lenny copies, so fucking solemn. He’s a reminder of Joe on the beach last night, and I have to focus on the book I’ll read out rather than wonder why he did that.Only now that I run a thumb over this book’s raised and bumpy title, I second-guess my choice of story.

The padre sees it.

“Every Scar Tells a Story?”

At least he doesn’t take it personally. He touches his own and lets out a low chuckle. “Today really is a day for reminders.” He makes a quick offer. “Why not come and see the big hole our Forest School teacher has dug to bury our latest time capsule?”

Lenny looks up to me, and it’s been a while since I saw him hope for something. That’s what prison does for kids this little—stops them from hoping. From wishing. All it does is prove that their prayers don’t get answered. This gaze asks, “Can I?”

“Give me… Give me a minute to think, Len.”

The padre doesn’t seem to mind that my brother still hasn’t let go of his hand or that he twists and turns it. I can guess Lenny’s reason—the scars worn by the inspiration for his favourite action figure start on the back of his hands. This stand-in for Joe doesn’t pull his hand free. He only aims a quiet question at me. “What were you planning on doing with your brother while you interviewed?”

Here’s the thing: I didn’t have a plan.

I still don’t.

My one and only aim was to drive away as fast as I could from flashing metal.

He must see that I’ve come to the end of my forward thinking. The padre already holds my brother’s hand. Now he grasps my shoulder and steers me to the front door of the school. “How about Lenny and I sit here on these steps to take a look at his book while you sign in at the office. Then maybe take a moment to...” He touches his unscarred cheek, and I see why after following his suggestions.

A mirror in a staff bathroom shows that Lenny’s scramble across my lap has gifted me with a smudge of chocolate. It also shows that the only thing interview-ready about me is the tie Joe knotted.

I can’t do this.

Something like exhaustion swamps me. So does a wave of panic.

I have to for Len.

I wipe that smudge away with shaking fingers and tug damp hands through sea-breeze tangles. Neither stops my heart from racing. “C-Christ. I-I still look?—”

The bathroom door swings open.

The one person I’d never want to see me fail my brother lets the door close behind him, and it’s the worst time in the worldto see more of the care I once mistook as personal instead of professional. Joe is creased with it the same way now as back when my family first imploded, and his rough concern still sounds authentic.

“You okay, mate?” He answers his own question, which is just as well—right now, I can’t catch enough breath to speak. “No,” he tells both of us. “You aren’t, are you?”

At least he doesn’t ask me about my brother. He saves that inquisition, too busy going off on what feels like a random conversational tangent, which is another blast from the past. Back then, Joe would cut through my fear of losing Lenny before meetings with social workers by telling me stories. I’ve always been a sucker for those. Today’s is brand-new to me.

“Right after I got burned, it took a while for the medics to figure out the pain meds. Tricky balance, I guess. Giving me enough to take the pain away completely risked stopping my breathing. Too little, and life didn’t feel worth living.” He chuffs out a soft laugh about something that sounds far from funny. “I guess a librarian saved me.”

I wheeze a single word when I should be in a hurry to leave this bathroom instead of listening to someone I can’t trust. “How?”

“How did he save me? By spotting that I was struggling. Not sure iflibrarianis the right title for a volunteer pushing a trolley of books, but he pulled up a chair and read to me. No idea what. All I really remember is that he’d say, ‘Breathe,’ between sentences, and I would. On rough days when I couldn’t make myself want to, he’d pull that chair even closer and help me do it.”

He lifts a hand to show me an unscarred palm that he places on the centre of my chest. Only for a moment. It startles me into dragging in a breath, and there’s the smile I told myself I musthave imagined. It’s so warm. So real. “There you go, superstar. I’d breathe just like that whenever his chest rose. Wanna try it?”

I don’t mean to raise a hand of my own. All I know is that my vision has narrowed to Joe.

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