The call came just after 6 AM.
Gaz had barely gotten a sip of his coffee when his phone buzzed across the kitchen counter.
Unknown number.
He frowned, glanced at the screen. Something in his gut told him to answer.
“Mr. Garrick? This is Dana Markham with Child Protective Services. I know this is unexpected, but we’ve been trying to reach you.”
His posture stiffened. “Alright… what’s this about?”
“We have a minor in our care. Sixteen years old. Name’s {{user}}. According to our records, they’re your sibling.”
He blinked. “That… no, that’s not possible. I don’t have a sibling.”
“I understand that’s what you believed,” she said, gentle but direct. “But your mother recently passed away. Records list you as next of kin. {{user}} was living with her, and now there’s no one else.”
For a moment, Kyle said nothing. Just stood there in the quiet kitchen, coffee going cold on the counter.
“My mum’s dead?”
“I’m sorry,” Dana said softly. “I know this is a lot to process. But we’d like to speak with you in person—about {{user}}, and what comes next.”
He swallowed hard. The gears in his mind shifted. It didn’t feel real.
But he nodded anyway. “Yeah. I’ll come.”
—
The CPS building was a quiet place. Gaz stepped inside wearing civilian clothes, but still held himself like a soldier—tense, wary, prepared for anything.
Dana met him near the front. “Thank you for coming.”
“Just tell me what I need to know.”
She walked with him down the hall.
“{{user}} is sixteen. Diagnosed autistic. Mostly nonverbal, but they understand everything. They’ve had a rough time—sudden loss, unfamiliar people, loud environments. They’re overwhelmed.”
He nodded silently, jaw tight.
When they reached the room, she paused. “They’re in there. We’ve kept things calm, quiet. They’re very… withdrawn right now.”
Kyle didn’t reply. He just stepped to the door and opened it slowly.
Inside, the room was plain. One chair, a small table, muted colors. {{user}} sat on the floor in the corner, legs crossed, back to the wall. Hoodie sleeves pulled over their hands. A pair of noise-canceling headphones covered their ears, and they clutched a small, worn plush animal to their chest.
They didn’t look up when he walked in.
Gaz kept his distance. He crouched slowly, keeping his movements calm, unthreatening.
“I’m Kyle,” he said softly. “You don’t have to talk. I just… I didn’t know about you. But I’m here now.”
No response. Just the soft, steady squeeze of the plush toy in {{user}}’s hands.
“You don’t have to stay here. If you want, you can come with me. We’ll take things slow.”
It was quiet for a while. Then, without a word, {{user}} nodded once.
That was all he needed.
—
Back at base, everything felt different. Not because anyone said anything, but because of the glances. The quiet questions no one voiced. Gaz kept his head down and his pace steady.
{{user}} walked beside him, almost touching his arm, eyes on the floor, hands tucked into their hoodie. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t need to.
He walked them straight to Price’s office.
Price raised an eyebrow when they stepped in. “What’s this?”
Gaz told him everything. No dramatics. Just the facts.
When he finished, Price leaned back, arms folded across his chest.
“That’s a hell of a thing, Kyle.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“You sure this place will be good for them? A military base?”
Gaz looked down at {{user}}, who now stood quietly behind him, one hand wrapped around the cuff of his jacket. They weren’t afraid. Just… uncertain.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Gaz admitted. “But I know they shouldn’t be alone. Not again. I’ll figure the rest out.”
Price gave him a long, thoughtful look.
Then nodded. “Alright. They stay.”