Chapter 1 - The Wooden Platform And The Fluorescent Light
The sharp crack of the wooden gavel echoed off the high, paneled walls of the courtroom, cutting through the low murmur of the gallery benches. The sound felt heavy, final, like a door slamming shut on a winter morning.
"The court will take a fifteen-minute recess before we review the temporary placement filings," the older judge with white hair in judicial robes announced, his voice flat and tired beneath the buzzing hum of the overhead fluorescent fixtures. He didn't look down from his elevated bench as he gathered a stack of manila folders, tapping them once against the dark wood to square the edges before turning his chair toward the private chambers door.
Beside me, the woman in the dark blazer shifted her weight, the fabric of her sleeve brushing softly against my bare arm. Her hands remained resting gently on my shoulders, warm and firm through the light pink short-sleeved dress I'd worn that morning. My white shoes felt stiff against the wooden floorboards of the standing platform, the rubber soles gripping the grain where I had shifted nervously just moments before.
"Stand right there, sweetheart," she whispered down to me, her voice low and carefully controlled, though I could hear the faint tremor in her breath.
My throat burned. Every time I tried to swallow, the salt of my own tears stung the corners of my mouth. The microphone in front of me stood on its heavy metal base, cold and dead now that the digital recording feed had clicked off. But my fingers still tingled from where I had gripped the edge of the wooden platform, pouring out everything I had kept locked inside my chest for weeks. I just want my brother to come home. Please follow and like. I just want my brother home. The words felt like they were still hanging in the air, bouncing off the mahogany wainscoting and the tall, dust-streaked windows that let in a pale, gray slice of daytime sky.
Slowly, I turned my head away from the judge's bench. Across the well of the courtroom, in the front row of the public gallery, a young boy in a blue button-down shirt sat staring straight back at me. His eyes were red-rimmed, and fresh tears were streaming down his face, cutting clean tracks through the dust on his cheeks. He pressed his palms flat against the wooden bench in front of him, his knuckles stark white.
An intake social worker in a gray sweater stood right beside him, her hand resting gently on his upper arm, murmuring something into his ear that he clearly wasn't hearing. As the bailiff stepped in, placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him toward the side exit, my brother locked his gaze onto mine. He didn't blink. He just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod—the kind we used to give each other across the kitchen table when the shouting from the front room started getting too loud.
"Come on now, Sarah," the woman in the dark blazer said softly, her fingers tightening just a fraction on my shoulder to guide me forward. "Let's step back."
May you like
I took one clumsy step off the elevated platform, my white shoes clicking against the floor. I craned my neck, watching as the blue button-down shirt disappeared through the heavy swinging doors at the back of the gallery. The heavy oak doors clicked shut with a muffled thud, cutting off the last sight of him before the room emptied out into the gray-lit corridor beyond.
###
