“What are you managing?”
He could have listed bills, food, school, his mother, the heater, the evaluation, his father’s death, the club, Raina’s forgery, and the fact that a government employee was now deciding whether he remained legally connected to the place he called home.
“My family.”
“How long?”
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Since my dad left.”
“How long ago?”
“Four years.”
Sandra wrote something.
“Do you feel safe here?”
“Yes.”
He answered instantly because he did.
Neglect and danger were not identical. Darla had never hit him. She had never threatened him. She had never brought dangerous people into the house. The harm here came from absence, from incapacity, from a child becoming the functional adult because the actual adult could not remain consistently present.
“Do you feel safe with the Ironbound Riders?”
Eli looked toward the front door.
“Safer than anywhere else.”
Sandra’s expression changed for less than a second.
“What makes you feel safe there?”
“They do what they say.”
“What else?”
“They notice things before I have to ask.”
Sandra wrote again.
“And Raina Cross?”
“She tells me when she’s wrong.”
Sandra glanced up.
“That matters to you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because adults usually explain why they weren’t wrong.”
Sandra stopped writing for a moment.
Then she resumed.
When she left at eleven-twenty, she did not announce a decision. She explained that she would submit a report within five business days, that a supervisor would review it, and that the county might request a temporary custody hearing depending on her findings.
The door closed.
Darla sat at the kitchen table holding a coffee cup.
“She’s going to recommend removal.”
“You don’t know that,” Raina said.
“I heard her pen when Eli said he’d been managing the family since he was nine.”
Nobody answered.
“I know what I’ve been,” Darla said.
Her voice was stripped of emotion in a way that made it heavier, not lighter.
“I know what this looked like. I know what he has been carrying.”
She looked at Eli.
“I know.”
Eli met her eyes.
“I know you know.”
Four years existed between them as a measurable distance.
Darla’s fingers tightened around the cup.
“I’m going to do better.”
He had heard promises like that from other adults. Teachers promising to help. Relatives saying they would check in. People saying call me if you need anything, then discovering later that they had meant something much narrower than anything.
Darla had never said it before.
Maybe because she had known promising required capacity.
“Okay,” Eli said.
Not I believe you.