Page 92 of Well That Happened

Grayson’s on my left, leaned back with his legs stretched out and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Casual. Calm. Watching the sky.

We’re on our way to see Fletcher—my first chance since he went away. I feel like I’m bracing myself for something I can’t name.

“If you’re tired,” Grayson says, his voice low and warm, “I’ve heard I make an excellent pillow.”

I smile, grateful for the offer. I lean into him, my head settling on his shoulder as the truck bobs along the highway.

His hoodie smells like clean laundry and soap, and the steady rhythm of the engine should be soothing. But my nerves keep buzzing. My hands won’t stop fidgeting. I’ve rehearsed what Iwant to say to Fletcher at least twenty times—and I still don’t know if it’s enough.

When we finally pull into the gravel lot outside the facility, my pulse spikes. It’s a low, modern building surrounded by evergreens. Not bleak. Not cold. But clinical enough to make my throat tighten.

“You ready for this?” Grayson asks as we walk.

“I think so,” I reply softly.

Caleb takes my hand.

Inside, we line up to check in. The front desk smells like disinfectant and someone’s overzealous perfume.

“Name?” the receptionist asks.

“Fletcher Jameson,” I say.

She types it into the computer and frowns.

“Sorry,” she says, looking up. “His visitation rights were revoked.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

Caleb steps forward, his voice polite but firm. “We drove hours to get here. Is there any way—”

“I can’t give you details,” she interrupts. “I’m sorry.”

Grayson exhales through his nose. “Is there someone else we can talk to?”

The receptionist hesitates, her fingers hovering above the keyboard. She finally nods. “One

second.”She disappears through a side door, and I shift from foot to foot, my heart pounding against my ribs as if it’s trying to break free. Caleb steps a little closer, the warmth of his arm brushing against mine. Grayson remains steady and still beside me—watchful and unreadable.

A woman in scrubs and a name badge returns a minute later, calm and professional, but her eyes soften when she sees me.

“You’re here for Fletcher Jameson?”

“Yes,” I reply quickly. “I’m his sister.”

She nods, then glances toward the receptionist before lowering her voice slightly. “I’m sorry you weren’t notified in advance. Fletcher’s had a difficult week, with several behavioral infractions—verbal outbursts and missed group work. As a result, his visitation privileges have been temporarily revoked.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

“Oh,” I manage to say.

“He’s not in danger,” she adds gently. “But we’re trying to support him through this phase, and sometimes that means limiting outside contact until he stabilizes.”

I nod, my eyes stinging.

Caleb places a steadying hand at the small of my back. Grayson remains quiet, but I can feel his sharp, focused gaze on me.

“If there’s anything you’d like us to tell him,” she continues, “we’re happy to pass along a message.”

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