I nudged him. "Want to get some air?"
Relief flickered across his face. "Yeah."
I led him back out onto the sidewalk. "There's a bench down by the harbor. Good view of the boats."
The bench sat beneath an old maple whose leaves had turned the color of burnished copper. From there, we watched the working waterfront—lobster boats swaying at their moorings, gulls diving for scraps, and the occasional seal head popping up between the pilings.
Wes cradled his coffee in both hands, letting the steam warm his face.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
"Don't know. Maybe."
"You don't have to be. Not all at once."
A kid ran past us, a hockey stick clutched in one hand and a backpack bouncing against his spine. His sneakers slapped against the pavement in an irregular rhythm, and he called something over his shoulder to a friend who trailed behind.
Something was off about his stride. It was the stick carriage and how his shoulders hunched forward—
Wes called to the boy. "Hey."
He skidded to a stop, looking back with the wide-eyed wariness children reserve for adults they don't recognize.
Wes hesitated, his coffee cup frozen halfway to his lips. I watched him wrestle with sixteen years of conditioning that told him to keep his head down, stay invisible, and offer nothing that might invite judgment or rejection.
When he straightened his shoulders, I knew he'd decided to engage. "Your grip. You're choking up too high on the shaft. Try dropping your hands about three inches."
The kid glanced at his stick, then back at Wes. "Like this?"
"Yeah, but relax your top hand. The stick should feel like it's floating, not like you're trying to strangle it." Wes leaned forward slightly. "Now try taking a few strides."
The boy adjusted his grip and took off down the sidewalk. Even I could see the difference—his movement was suddenly fluid and natural like the stick had become part of his body.
"Whoa!" The kid spun around, his face lighting up with pure joy. "That's so much better! How'd you know that?"
Wes blinked. "I used to... I played hockey. A long time ago."
"Cool! You must've been really good to know stuff like that." The boy's friend had caught up. "Thanks, mister!"
They took off again, with the first boy demonstrating his improved form to his friend. Wes watched them.
"Damn," he whispered, so quietly I almost missed it. "I'd forgotten."
"Forgotten what?"
"That it felt good. Helping someone get better at something I loved."
In thirty seconds, a kid with a hockey stick had accidentally given Wes back a piece of himself. Not the entire picture—that would take time—but a crucial fragment that proved the person he'd been wasn't dead, only dormant.
He watched them disappear around the corner. His voice was so quiet when he spoke again that I had to lean closer to hear him.
"I used to be someone here."
The words weren't bitter, exactly, but heavy with loss. He wasn't talking about fame or recognition. He was talking about belonging. About having a place in the world where people knew your name and expected to see you on familiar streets.
I wanted to tell him he could be someone here again, that people like Reid and Margot appeared ready to welcome him back. Unfortunately, the hurt in his voice suggested the wound ran deeper than a simple return could heal.
I reached over and covered his hand with mine.
