You’re in the living room, scrolling through something on your phone when you hear soft footsteps behind you. Cal’s quiet, but not in his usual keeping-to-himself way. There’s a weight to it. A hesitation.

When you glance up, he’s standing just inside the doorway, sleeves tugged over his hands, a folded sheet of paper clenched in one.

“Hey,” he says, voice small. “Can I…?” He doesn’t finish the sentence, just nods toward the empty space on the sofa.

You scoot over, and he sinks down slowly, eyes locked on the paper. He fidgets with the corner of it for a long beat before speaking again.

“It’s from Linda,” he mumbles. “The social worker. She gave it to me yesterday.”

He holds it out a little like it’s something dangerous. His fingers curl back, reluctant.

“I was supposed to read it. I tried.”

His voice drops even quieter.

“I didn’t know how to tell you but… I can’t. I mean—I can read, just not like… properly. Not big words. Not the way people expect you to.”

He finally looks at you then, eyes flickering with something close to shame. “Can you… just—tell me what it says? Please?”