Page 16 of Stolen Dreams

Is this why he acts out at random? A classmate picks on him. Says cruel, detrimental things.

A different sensation surfaces and takes hold. My nostrils flare as my nails dig into my palms. Sweat licks my skin, a turbulent heatwave pulsing, expanding, staining my neck and face. Red clouds my vision, my rage a molten hydrothermal vent ready to burst.

A growl rattles my chest as I close my eyes and take a slow, measured breath. Then another. And another until the fiery storm wanes.

Regardless of my anger, I can’t approach this with a hot head. With Tucker’s past, I need to tread lightly. Find a way to broach the subject in regular conversation. I want answers but can’t demand them.

Talking with the toy must be an outlet. A way to release the hurt. Say what he feels in a safe space. The last thing I want Tucker to think is I eavesdrop on his privacy. He deserves refuge. A space free from harm or intrusion.

Instead, I’ll talk with Mom and Dad. Ask if he mentioned anything after school yesterday. Then I’ll reach out to Tucker’s teacher. Question if there’s a bully in the classroom. Bring this shift in Tucker’s behavior to their attention.

Shirt and shoes on, I exit my room and act as I do every other school day. “Train leaves the station in five, T-Man.”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he hollers.

As I pocket my wallet, he flies down the stairs. We exit the house through the garage and hit the road a minute later.

Every cell in my body begs me to pry. To ask him if a classmate is harassing him. Somehow, I bite my tongue and resist the urge. When we reach the only stoplight in town, I turn on music and let the upbeat track steal my attention.

Two songs later, I steer the car into the school drop-off line. Tucker kicks his feet to the music and mumbles the lyrics. Bops his head, the corners of his mouth turned incrementally upward.

This is the most at ease I’ve seen Tucker since I got him back. I soak up every single second.

Is this because of his talk with the red toy?

As we inch forward, the need to saysomethingsurfaces. “You excited for summer, bud?”

He stares out the backseat passenger window and shrugs. “I guess.”

I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“When I was in school, I counted down the hours during the last week. I was so excited to play outside all day and sleep in.”

“Yeah,” he says wistfully, his feet stilling. “Will you be home?”

That constriction in my chest from earlier makes a rapid comeback. I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. “We’ll have so much more time together, bud.”

The hint of a smile brightens his expression as we reach the drop-off spot. “I’ll start thinking of all the things I want to do.” He grabs his backpack, unfastens his seat belt, and opens the door. “Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, T-Man. I love you. Have a good day.”

His eyes meet mine for a second. “Love you, too.” He closes the door and bolts through the crowd, disappearing inside the building a moment later.

On my drive home, I set a reminder to reach out to my parents and the teacher in a couple hours. Hopefully it’s nothing to worry about, but I’d rather err on the side of caution.

As I park in the driveway, my phone rings, Fin’s name flashing on the screen. I hit accept. “Morning, sunshine. You’re up early,” I say with exaggerated cheer in my voice.

“Are you always this loud in the morning?”

I cut the engine and exit the car. “Only for you, Finny.”

If eye rolls made a noise, I’d hear it through the line right now.

“You’re ridiculous.” He huffs out a breath. “Just like my neighbor who thought no one would care if he used an electric saw in his open garage at seven in the morning. Ugh.”

Unlocking the front door, I step in the house and toe off my shoes. “Dick move.”

“Yeah. And now, I can’t sleep. Was wondering if you wanted to knock out filming early.”

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