Page 16 of The Silence Between

The debate itself passed in a blur of arguments and rebuttals. I provided historical context and policy analysis, while Leo delivered devastating firsthand perspectives on educational barriers. Our opponents, two students from an elite private school in Portland, seemed taken aback by the passion behind our arguments.

During cross-examination, one of the judges questioned the practicality of Leo's policy suggestions.

“Your proposal for community-based resource centers sounds idealistic,” he said. “Where would funding come from in already-strained districts?”

Before Leo could respond, I jumped in, surprising even myself with my vehemence. “With respect, sir, what's truly impractical is continuing to underfund schools while expecting different results. The money exists—in military budgets, in corporate tax breaks, in the funds allocated to schools in wealthy districts like mine while schools three miles away lack basic supplies.”

The judge's eyebrows rose at my passion. Leo gave me a quick glance of appreciation before seamlessly building on my point.

When the results were announced—we'd won our division and qualified for state finals—the rush of victory was accompanied by something deeper: the sense that together, we'd communicated something true.

The celebration afterward felt hollow as I watched Leo discreetly check his phone while teammates who had previously ignored him suddenly included him in their congratulations. The manufactured camaraderie grated on me in a way it never had before, as if a filter had been removed from my vision.

“I need to go,” Leo said during a lull in the celebration. “Now.”

The urgency in his voice was unmistakable. “I'll drive you,” I offered immediately.

He hesitated, and I could see the internal debate playing across his features—the pride that wanted to keep his worlds separate warring with the practical need for fast transportation.

“Okay,” he finally said. “Thanks.”

We slipped away without lengthy goodbyes, Leo already texting Mari as we walked to my car. The drive from downtown to East Riverton took only fifteen minutes, but it might as well have been a journey to another country. The streets narrowed, the houses grew smaller and more worn, the sidewalks cracked and spotted with weeds.

Outside a run-down apartment building, Leo asked me to wait in the car. I watched through the windshield as he ran inside, noticing how several people called greetings to him as he passed—he wasn't just a resident here, but part of a community.

Minutes later, he emerged with Mari and two younger children I recognized from photos he kept in his debate folder—Diego, with the same serious eyes as his siblings, and Sophie, a toddler with wild curls and tearstained cheeks. Leo helped them into my car's back seat, his movements gentle but urgent.

“We need to go to the hospital,” he explained briefly. “Mom's medication. She took too much. Neighbor's with her now, ambulance costs too much.”

The children were frightened but composed, following Leo's instructions with practiced obedience that spoke of other crises, other emergency trips. Mari held Sophie on her lap, whispering soothing words in Spanish. Diego sat silently, his small hand clutching Leo's jacket sleeve across the seat.

At Riverton Memorial Hospital, I witnessed a side of Leo I'd never imagined—confident in crisis, navigating the healthcare system with practiced knowledge. He explained his mother's history to the nurses with calm authority, comforted his siblings in the waiting room, coordinated with a social worker who clearly knew him from previous incidents.

“Mr. Reyes, we've discussed resources before,” the social worker said quietly. “There are options?—“

“We're managing,” Leo interrupted, his tone firm but respectful. “It was an accident. She got the dosage confused.”

The social worker's expression suggested she'd heard similar explanations before, but she nodded. “Call me if anything changes. My direct line, anytime.”

When things finally stabilized, Leo seemed to remember my presence for the first time in hours.

“You didn't have to stay,” he said, sinking into the hard plastic chair beside me while his siblings dozed across from us, Diego and Sophie finally asleep after the long wait, Mari fighting to keep her eyes open.

“I wanted to,” I replied simply.

He studied me for a long moment, as if searching for hidden motives. Finding none, he nodded slightly, then leaned back against the wall, his shoulder brushing against mine.

We sat in silence under the harsh fluorescent lights of the waiting room, the antiseptic smell of hospital cleaning products hanging in the air. I watched his hand resting on the chair between us, knuckles scraped from some unnamed labor, fingers barely an inch from my own.

Carefully, hesitantly, I moved my pinky finger until it touched his. He didn't pull away.

In that moment, in that sterile waiting room with its background noise of beeping monitors and squeaking nurses' shoes, something shifted between us—something that felt both terrifying and inevitable, like standing at the edge of the railroad bridge and wondering what it would feel like to jump.

4

BREAKING POINT

ETHAN

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