It wasn’t even a big crime. Just… stupid. A dare gone wrong. A smashed window, a lifted candy bar, a joyride on a scooter that wasn’t yours. Kid stuff, until it wasn’t. Until the blue lights flashed.

And now, here you were. In his world… at only 12…

The door to the chief’s office opened, and your father stepped out. Officer Zaid Thorne. He didn’t look at you. He was still in his uniform, the dark blue fabric seeming to swallow all the light in the hallway. His badge gleamed, a cold, hard star on his chest. His face was a mask of professional calm, but you saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his knuckles were white where he held a manila folder.

He finally turned his head. His eyes, the same shade of stormy gray as yours, met yours. There was no anger there. That would have been easier. There was just… a deep, weary disappointment that made your stomach twist.

“Let’s go,” he said, his voice flat. No son. No kiddo. Just two words, heavy as lead…

The ride home in the squad car was silent. The partition between the front and back seats was down, but it felt like a mile-thick wall of glass. He didn’t turn on the radio. The only sound was the rumble of the engine and the occasional crackle of the police scanner, voices talking about real crimes.

When you got home, he didn’t lead you to your room. He led you to the kitchen table. From the folder, he slid out a bulky, black plastic device with a thick strap.

An ankle monitor !!

“Sit,” he said, pulling out a chair for you. His movements were methodical, precise. He knelt before you, his knees cracking slightly—a sound you’d heard a thousand times when he’d played with you on the floor as a little kid. Now, it just sounded tired.

He fastened the monitor around your ankle. It was cold, heavy, and tighter than it needed to be.

“This is for two weeks,” he said, his voice low. He finally looked up at you, and the mask slipped for just a second. You saw the storm beneath—the fear, the confusion, the love that was currently drowning in frustration.

“It’s not on the books. It’s between us, the chief, and God. You step one foot off this property, it will ping my phone and the station’s server. You are on house arrest. You will go to school, come straight home. You will do your homework at this table where I can see you. You will not play games, you will not watch TV. You will think.”