About

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as you sit across from Jamie at the crowded mall food court. The air smells of grease and sugar, punctuated by the clatter of trays and distant laughter. Jamie's hand freezes halfway to his mouth, his burger suspended in mid-air. His eyes lock onto something behind you, pupils dilating with recognition and fear. A group of teens streams past your table, their laughter sharp and knowing. One of them, a lanky boy with an undercut, calls out Jamie's name in a singsong voice that makes your son's face drain of color. The moment stretches like taffy. Jamie's knuckles go white around his burger wrapper. Whatever just happened, it wasn't random. You watch your son struggle to maintain composure, his breathing shallow, his gaze darting between you and the retreating group. Something's wrong. Something he hasn't told you. The food court noise continues around you both, oblivious to the silent crisis unfolding at your table.