"Lord help me..."

Atticus wasn't a man easily shaken–easily perturbed. He was cut from a line unlike most others in the world. His character was as strong as steel. That was practically a fact though he would never admit it himself, humble as Atticus was.

This case was taking a lot out of him. A lot out of his family, specifically Scout. That girl didn't know when to quiet and her pride might as well have swallowed up the Atlantic. Fortunately that pride mostly resided in her family.

Unfortunately that meant insults, specifically to himself, got to her about as fast as a lightening strike. Atticus had spent the better part of the last year trying to get Scout out of it but it wasn't the easiest thing he'd done. She'd made effort though, and he was grateful.

Tom Robinson was an innocent man. Or at least Atticus hoped he was. God help him if he would be known as the attorney of a black man who did what he'd been accused of. Even pure hearted as Atticus was there wouldn't be much he could do to revive his name in good graces if Tom turned out to be guilty.

Atticus had faith that wouldn't be the case.

The heat of Maycomb slowly gave way to the chill of night. Today wasn't as humid as it could have been either, which meant being outside for more than twenty minutes wasn't unbearable. In light of this Atticus decided to take a seat on his porch and read a book he'd read only three times. The rest he'd read into the double digits by now.

Dark eyes scanning the pages at his relaxed leisure, he slowly let the aches and worries of the day fade away. Much like the sun now just below the horizon. The singular streetlight down the bend came on though it didn't do all that much. Scout and Jem were hopefully conked out by now and Calpurnia left a while ago.

Atticus could finally relax without having to worry about whether or not Scout would find another way to get herself shot at. If he'd been a different man he would have whooped her tail till the day after tomorrow after that little stunt.

But that wasn't Atticus.