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What else did he say that night while wedding guests danced and he drew them on his phone with a stylus?
A never-ending tsunami of half-finished stories.
Luke murmurs, “Having an extra story-telling person on my team was key to my plans for Glynn Harber, but if that librarian couldn’t see the value of difficult journeys, I can’t possibly risk them around my students, can I?”
Risk them.
That phrase has rattled through my brain all day long. For the last two weeks as well.
Luke picks up the same thread and runs with it. Not literally though. If anything, he cautiously peers around a set of shelving, then crooks a finger. I follow to see his little daughter curled up on a beanbag seat, asleep with a picture book open beside her. He carefully scoops it up and retreats with it to show me.
“Risk Jamila never getting to see Syrian children like herself and her brother?”
The book is full of little girls and boys just like her and her brother, Hadi.
“Risk her not getting to see that good times are possible after bad ones?”
There’s loss on these pages, and how the fuck an artist conveyed that without it being terrifying, I don’t know, but Rae’s mentor has drawn love far more often than he has drawn fear or sadness.
Luke touches one of those caring images. “Risk her not getting to see how much her heritage matters? Heritage like youhelped to translate for me, back when we found little Olek’s scroll and diary in the school foundation, remember?”
I do. That was at the start of the summer. Months later, I wish I knew what happened to a kid who didn’t only share my roots but also my footballing dreams. Even if those never worked out for me, I hope he got his own happy ending.
Luke clears his throat. “Difficult paths are the ones our students most need to read. They need to see them play out more often, not less.” He faces me, no escaping this eye contact. “They need to hear them from people who have lived through similar tough issues like theirs and who have come out the other side as aspirational people.” He pauses. “Like you have, Hayden.”
“Me?”
“You,” he confirms. “Which is also what I meant earlier about Rae’s meeting.” He’s honest again. “Part of me wanted to keep him here for a little longer, just like I want to keep you.”
My throat tightens out of nowhere, and perhaps he can tell.
Luke speaks for me. “You’ve worked with children when you ran nature courses as part of your camping business, so you must have passed clearance checks multiple times.”
I nod. I have.
“Some of our children are particularly vulnerable. That’s why anyone who works here needs to pass enhanced checks. Yours came back completely clear, Hayden. No police cautions or convictions.”
I nod again, fully expecting more questions about exactly how I let down everyone who loved me.
Luke tilts his head to ask a different question. “Who let you down, Hayden?”
I can’t answer.
I can’t breathe either, if I’m honest.
And I’m not sure how I end up sitting heavily on a chair provided by someone maybe I shouldn’t have avoided, becauseLuke doesn’t probe. He only sits beside me to open that star-covered storybook Rae apparently recommended. Luke turns to a page where a boy props up a massive boulder, and this illustrator’s style is different from Rae’s. There are no fairies on these pages, no crowns or burrs or sparkles, just a little kid struggling not to get crushed under something heavy.
Luke touches the edge of that huge boulder, then asks, “You failed a test when you were how old?”
“Seventeen.”
“The reason you failed it… That was your decision? Your idea?”
I shake my head. Then I nod, so Luke rephrases.
“Would you say you were supported?”
That’s much easier to answer. “No.”
