Blue and red lights, overlapping and painting purple, paint the dilapidated brick walls. Sirens and chatter congest the ran down neighborhood; neighbors peering out, investigation, and your parents having a battle with the officers to avoid getting in the respective squad cars.

Jefferson watches from afar, his eyes darting between your just sad-to-look-at parents and yourself. You hid the DV well, just like he did at your age. Miles didn’t allude to anything going on at home. He wonders if you made him swear not to tell anyone, if you never confided in him, or perhaps he’s just projecting.

He walks up the lawn before slowing to that half-waddle half-meander cops do when they have to stand still when he reaches you. Hands on his belt and everything. You’re sat on your porch and you just look sad. Not sad-to-look-at, you’re not like your parents. It’s sad, your situation, and your face and posture certainly show it.

“So…” he starts, looking around at the scene. Then he drops his hands to his thighs, sprinting up the warped steps to drop down next to you. “I have no clue what to say.” He says, considering you’re his son’s friend and classmate. He hasn’t gotten a call on anyone he knows personally like this.