Page 15 of No Turning Back
He doesn’t answer.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “I could make you a sandwich or-”
“Where’s my room?” he interrupts, voice flat.
“Oh…uh, upstairs. First door on the right.”
He walks past us like a ghost. Silent. Distant. My heart squeezes as I watch him disappear inside, his duffel trailing behind him.
Angela and I step back in, her face tight with a careful sort of calm.
“He didn’t even take his shoes off,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
“He might not unpack either,” she says. “Jordan’s been in survival mode for a while now. You’re not going to get a lot of emotion. He might not talk at all at first. Just… give him space. Stability. Don’t push.”
I nod, absorbing her words like they’re instructions for defusing a bomb.
Angela continues, quieter now. “His mom died suddenly. No warning. No prep. And his dad, his dad was his rock. Jordan adored him. But with no contact and no timeline, it’s like losing them both.”
I swallow hard. “He looked like he’s lost everything.”
“Because, for now, he has.” Angela’s tone softens. “I can’t tell you how long he’ll be here. It’s impossible to say. But right now, what he needs most is consistency. Not perfection. Not a therapist. Just someone steady.”
“I can do steady,” I say, though the tightness in my throat makes it sound more like a question.
Angela gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You’re not here to fix him, Quinn. Just to be here. That’s enough.”
I nod again, staring at the stairs where Jordan disappeared.
Angela shifts the folder in her arms, then pulls out a pen. “There’s just a little bit of paperwork.”
Of course there is.
She hands me a couple of sheets clipped to a thin packet. “It’s just a standard temporary care agreement. It gives you the authority to make medical decisions. He’s already enrolled in school, but you’ll have the authority to coordinate with them if needed. Consent to basic care, the usual stuff. Nothing binding long-term.”
“Should I send him to school?”
Angela thinks for a moment. “Let him make that decision. But definitely reach out to the school and ask for his coursework, don’t make him do it, just make it available. It’s something he can turn to if he wants structure, or just… normalcy.”
I nod. “The last thing he needs to worry about right now is algebra.”
I sign where she points, the pages smooth and clinical, my name on paper, his name already typed in.
“This one,” she taps a final spot, “just confirms you received him and that he’s in your care. We have to keep a log.”
I scribble my signature again.
Angela tucks the papers back into her folder and straightens. “You have my number. If anything feels off or if you just need to vent, I’m a text away, Quinn. Don’t wait to reach out.”
“I won’t,” I say, though I’m not sure I believe it.
She gives me a gentle smile. “You’re doing a good thing.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, even as my stomach churns with doubt.
Angela heads toward the door. She pauses just before opening it. “He may not say it, but he notices everything. Your tone. Your silence. The way you show up. Even now, that matters.”
I nod again, swallowing hard as Angela steps out into the sun, leaving me alone in the stillness of my house, with the weight of a boy upstairs and a whole new chapter already unfolding.
