A small boy, maybe seven, was standing behind Agnes with his face broadcasting the ancient, cross-cultural frequency of childhood humiliation.
Andrew hadn't asked for a defender. Andrew had asked for a normal afternoon. But Agnes Viremont didn't do normal afternoons. She did full-scale diplomatic shitstorms over playground infractions.
"Mom..." Andrew's voice was small, careful, the tone of a child navigating a parent who had zero concept of proportional response. "It's okay. He didn't mean to."
Andrew was deploying the only weapon a child had against an overreacting parent: calm, reasonable minimization. It had never worked. It would never work. He deployed it anyway because hope was all he had.
"He absolutely meant to, Andrew. Intent was visible. The windup was deliberate. The aim was targeted. That was a hostile ball deployment and I will not tolerate hostile ball deployments against my son in my courtyard."
