"Ben, it's necessary. You can't just live with me, kiddo. You need stability—and I've got things to take care of," Grandpa Max said.
I stood across from him, burning up and not even sure why.
Gwen hunched on the Rust Bucket's couch, red hair flicking as her gaze ping-ponged between us.
I stared Grandpa down, heat rising. A few days since my mother's funeral and he was already trying to hand me off. No way.
I liked it with him in the Rust Bucket—house half-built, him showing me little construction tricks, mornings we trained till my arms shook. We laughed, too—his dumb jokes, me not saying a word and still cracking up.
I wasn't going to Aunt Natalie's. And I definitely wasn't letting her be my therapist. Or anyone. I didn't need one.
I signed NO, sharp and heavy. Then faster: I don't want Aunt Natalie. I want you.
Grandpa scrubbed a hand through his white hair. The irritation in his eyes settled into something steadier. "Ben, I get it—you want to stay with me. Honestly, I'd let you if I could." He flicked a look at Gwen, deciding. "But I've got things to do. Things that don't involve my grandkids."
He knelt so we were eye level. "And besides, sport—you need stability. Parenting. Therapy." My fingers twitched and he lifted a finger. "Before you say you don't: you've been with me over a month and you haven't spoken once. I understand. Learning sign at your age? That's impressive. But there's still stuff you need to work on. And that's okay."
He softened, but his voice stayed firm. "You need to accept that. Same as you need to accept I've got things to work on too—things I can't handle with you riding shotgun. That doesn't mean I don't love you. I'm not tossing you away."
Heat crawled up my neck. I looked anywhere but at him, hands ready to fly—
"Ben, you want to live with me and Mommy, right? Don't you wanna eat dinner together and play?" Gwen cut in, using her cursed little technique.
I looked at her, the heat dying down as I scratched at my scalp. Then Gwen smiled that sweet, innocent smile. Grandpa cracked up, and that was that. Argument over. I lost.
...
It was the next day, grandpa had already finished helping me pack the little bit of clothes and belongings he had bought me over the last couple of weeks. Right now we were on our way to Aunt Natalie's, the radio on as we listened to a prank call.
Fields slid past in long strips. A water tower. Billboards that promised fireworks or feed. The road hummed steady under our feet. Gwen tried the prank voice and cracked herself up. Grandpa Max—tapped the wheel like the laughter track had a beat.
I worked a loose thread on my backpack until it snapped. I want to stay, I signed small, down by my knee. Then, because it was also true: I'll try.
He caught it in the rearview and made that little grunt that meant he'd heard me.
We took the exit I knew—past the leaning stop sign, past the daycare with the cartoon sun. My stomach dipped when the houses started repeating themselves: tidy lawns, square mailboxes, same plan with different doors. Natalie and Frank's place had the navy door, the two herb pots, the twitchy wind chime. The maple out front looked a little taller than last time.
Grandpa idled a second. "You ready, sport?" Not a test; an offer.
I nodded. I'll try.
Gwen shouldered the door open like she lived there—because she did. Inside was exactly the kind of middle-class I remembered from last time, the vinyl runner still layed to the side, not a speck of dust in sight, framed school photos climbing the stairs, a whiteboard calendar bleeding with soccer practice and PTA meetings and after coming here a few times, I realized karate lessons too, a couch that had seen naps and family movie nights, the coffee table with a baby corner guard still clinging to one edge.
Natalie came out of the kitchen with a towel over her shoulder, curls tucked back, eyes soft but not pushy. "Hey, Ben." She signed it too—Hey, Ben. Then, to Grandpa: "Hi, Max."
"Nat," he said, giving the quick chin-up nod he used for family. They did a short hug. Gwen was already at the herb pots, pinching a leaf like a raccoon with a license.
"Basil," Natalie said without looking. "Save some for dinner."
From the mudroom came the clink of keys. Frank stepped out in a button up shirt and blue jeans, with a coffee stain on his sleeve. "There he is," he said, and tapped his knuckles to mine. "Good to see you, champ. I can't wait to show you the love of football. You need anything, you tell Nat—or tell me." He lifted his hand like proof. He turned to Grandpa "I'll grab his rent money from the rust bucket later."
Max snorted. "Bring it back the same decade."
Frank grinned and slipped out, the side door thunking behind him.
Natalie waved us toward the kitchen. "Rolls are warm. Hot chocolate's on the counter. We'll set your stuff up after." She kept her hands where I could see them, not babying, just there. "Therapy-wise, same plan we talked about before. Short sessions. Start light. Today doesn't have to be a hard Session."
I nodded. The knot in my chest loosened a notch. The calendar on the wall was filled to the edges, but someone had left a blank square with my name in the corner. I looked away before anyone saw me looking.
Max hovered by my bag like it might crawl off. He finally sat, halfway. "Call me anyway," he said, preempting the part where I wouldn't ask for anything.
Gwen saluted with a basil leaf. "If you don't, I will."
I signed Okay. Then my hands moved again before I could stop them: Love you.
His mouth twitched. "Love you too, sport." He stood, tugged the brim of his collar, then bent and hugged me—just enough pressure to say steady. He looked at Aunt Natalie, he said, "You call if—"
"I know," she said, amused. "I will. Go on, Max."
He chuckled, set a note with his number on the counter like none of us had it memorized, and headed out. The wind chime gave its nervous little sound. The Rust Bucket coughed and settled into its familiar rumble as he pulled away.
Natalie didn't step into the space he left. She slid a mug toward me. "Cinnamon," she said. "House rule for new starts."
Gwen bit into a roll and gave me a crumb-dusted thumbs-up for no reason. I snorted, which still counted as laughing.
"After we eat," Natalie said, "you can help me decide where a punching bag would go in the garage, or you can label the leftover shelf so Uncle Frank stops declaring sovereignty over takeout. We'll argue the clinical merits of both."
I blinked, then nodded. We make a plan together.
She nodded, smiling sweetly. "Yes, yes, we will, Ben. And just remember—it's only for a month. I don't need my son asking me why someone is sleeping in his room when he gets back from camp," she said with a chuckle that held something I couldn't name.
Sure. Only a month—before I get traded again, to permanently live with Uncle Carl and Aunt Sandra.
She nodded, smile soft. "Yes, yes—we will, Ben. And remember, it's just a month. I don't need my kid coming home from camp asking why someone's sleeping in his room," she said, laughing—though there was something in it I couldn't place.
Sure. Just a month. Then I get traded again—shipped off to live with Uncle Carl and Aunt Sandra for good.
I didn't say it. I knew better.
"Ben, I'm so glad you're staying with us! Mom, can we watch a movie tonight?" Gwen blurted, a cinnamon-spiked ribbon of hot chocolate sliding down her chin.
Gwen didn't wait for an answer. "Movie tonight, pleeeease," she added, drawing it out.
Natalie's eyes narrowed—amused, but measured. "Not tonight," she said. "We're keeping today light and quiet."
Gwen pouted theatrically. "What about ice cream? We need ice cream so we don't melt."
"That's not how that works," Natalie said, passing her a napkin and then tapping the small Plan column on the whiteboard. "Rolls, room setup, outside for ten minutes in the shade, then Quiet Hour. After that, if Ben's up for it, a short session. Movie night is a tomorrow conversation."
Gwen wiped the cinnamon mustache off her chin, then leaned toward me like she was leaking classified intel. "We have a projector. Backyard cinema. Real popcorn. You'd be in charge of bug patrol."
I signed, Pay?
She grinned. "Hazard pay in popsicles."
I pretended to weigh it, then nodded. Deal—tomorrow.
"Tomorrow," Natalie echoed, a soft stamp of approval. She tapped the counter once to get my eyes and signed, We'll keep today light. Then, aloud: "Summer schedules can be flexible, but the plan stands. Eat, set up your room, a little shade time, quiet."
We ate the warm rolls and a plate of sliced tomatoes and mozzarella that tasted like a garden trying to show off. Gwen launched into the plot of a cartoon about a heroic ferret and a villain raccoon with a top hat.
"Raccoons don't wear hats," I signed, deadpan.
"This one does," Gwen said. "He's very professional."
I almost choked on a tomato.
After lunch, we took my bag down the hall. The room was the same as last time—little desk, lamp, bed already made, a corkboard waiting above the desk. The fan turned lazily, moving air that smelled like laundry and lemon. On the whiteboard in the hall, no school things—just summer blocks and, under Plan, today's steps written in Natalie's neat hand: ROOM , SHADE (10) , QUIET (12:30–1:20) , TRANSITION (1:20) , BEN (1:30–1:50).
Natalie set my bag on the bed and stepped back like she was making space for me to go first. "You can move anything," she said, then added, "after you decide where you want it. We won't try six layouts today."
Gwen arrived with a stack of colored pushpins and a flat box. "Welcome kit," she announced. Two mechanical pencils, a tiny fox notebook, and earplugs. "For when people breathe too loud."
"Accurate," Natalie said, tucking the sheet corner tight. To me, she signed, You can decorate this board. Then, aloud: "Or leave it blank. Blank is a valid design choice."
I pinned a blue pushpin low in the corner and a yellow above it, a constellation only I could read.
From the doorway, Frank started to say something and stopped himself. Natalie didn't look up. "Text me your question," she said, not unkind, "and head out, please."
He lifted two fingers in a small salute, mouthed got it, and disappeared without crossing the threshold.
"Cicadas," Gwen said suddenly. "Hear them?" She tilted her head toward the open window.
We all went quiet. Outside, the air pulsed with summer—cicadas sawing, somewhere a sprinkler ticking, a distant mower like a sleepy bee. Inside, the AC hummed a steady baseline.
"Shade time," Natalie said, checking the clock. "Ten minutes. Sandals on. Sunscreen first."
She brought out the bottle and did the efficient parent thing: slather first, discuss later. "Arms," she said, and Gwen presented hers like tribute.
Natalie glanced at me. "Yours?"
I held out my forearms. The lotion was cold; her hands were practical. "Not the fancy coconut kind," she said. "We'll smell like the beach gift shop."
I signed, Worse fates.
She smiled with one corner of her mouth. "Walk, not chaos," she told Gwen, and we did one slow lap on the shade side of the block. At the corner, she signed, Halfway still counts. I nodded, because it did.
Back home, she rinsed our hands and checked the wall clock. "Quiet starts at twelve-thirty," she said, tapping the Plan box. "No visitors, no calls, no movies."
Gwen made the world's smallest groan and then rallied. "I can be quiet." She thought. "Quiet-ish."
"Quiet," Natalie corrected, but she squeezed Gwen's shoulder as she said it.
She set a glass of water on the kitchen table in front of me and slid over three index cards labeled READ, DRAW, SIT. "Pick one for the first half of Quiet," she said, signing along. "Second half is Transition. We'll do water, bathroom, and choose your chair."
I chose DRAW and dotted stars on a blank card. Natalie didn't hover. She smoothed the vinyl runner by the door with one hand, straightened a photo frame by one degree, and then sat across from me with her own card, where she wrote a grocery list shaped like a tiny poem: milk / bread / basil if ours bolts / dish soap.
At 12:45 she signed, Breath check. We traced a square in the air: in, hold, out, hold. The AC clicked a little deeper, like it had agreed to the plan.
At 12:55 she walked the short hall to her office, cracked the window an inch so the maple could hush, and placed the small timer on the table where I'd see it and not have to guess. She didn't change the chairs; they were already at the right angle. She set a glass of water on each coaster and left the door open.
Back at the table, she slid a cool washcloth across to me. "Transition," she said, signing it, too: Water. Bathroom. Choose chair. She didn't look at her phone; it was face-down on the counter with Do Not Disturb set like a lock.
Gwen tiptoed in, very dramatically, and whispered, "Break a leg," then looked at Natalie and corrected herself. "I mean… follow the plan." She pressed a blue pushpin into my palm for luck and zipped back down the hall before Natalie had to say anything.
Natalie pretended not to see the smuggling. "Five minutes," she said softly, signing Five. "We'll start on time, end on time. Three passes. Two vetoes."
I nodded. The pushpin was smooth under my thumb.
The house went purposely quiet: upstairs a page turned; outside the sprinkler ticked through its orbit. Natalie waited until I stood, then walked with me to the office and tapped the doorframe once—knock without the door.
"You want water?" she asked, and signed it too.
I touched the rim of my glass. I'm good.
She lifted her hand and labeled the rules one by one with her fingers—three passes, two vetoes, twenty minutes, start on time; end on time—then hovered a hand over the back of the other chair. "Sit?"
I breathed in, breathed out. Okay.
She sat angled so we were two notes in a chord, not a face-off. The timer waited between us, a small patient thing. The AC breathed. The maple whispered. Natalie looked at the clock.
"We'll start when you look at the timer," she said—soft, steady, exactly on plan.
I looked.