"Yeah," he said. "For the first time in twelve years, I think I am."
Chapter 15: Frank's Last Play
The courthouse steps were still crowded when it happened.
Tommy had just walked out into the pale afternoon light with Silas beside him and Diane talking low about paperwork and next steps. Preston Vane was in handcuffs. The hearing had been adjourned and the judge had said the boy would stay in the group home until the guardianship order was finalized, and Casey Tran had smiled and said she would drive him back herself.
Then a hand closed around his wrist like a trap snapping shut.
"Come on, kid. You're coming with me."
Frank's face was red and wild, and his fingers dug into Tommy's arm hard enough to bruise.
"Get off me," Tommy said, twisting away.
"You're my meal ticket, kid," Frank said, loud enough for everyone on the steps to hear. "You hear me? That old man's gonna pay. You're mine. I've had you three years."
Frank yanked harder, and Tommy stumbled down a step, and Silas reached out fast for a man his age and grabbed Frank's other arm.
"Take your hands off him," Silas said, quiet and deadly.
Two deputies were already moving. They had Frank by both arms in seconds, and one of them peeled his hand off Tommy's wrist while Tommy stood there breathing hard.
"He's my nephew," Frank shouted. "You can't take my nephew. He's mine."
"He's in DFCS custody," one deputy said. "And you just tried to remove him by force in front of a courthouse. You're under arrest for custodial interference."
They walked Frank down the steps in handcuffs. Silas put a hand on Tommy's shoulder, and Tommy let it stay there this time.
"You okay?" Silas asked.
"I'm okay," Tommy said, rubbing his wrist where Frank's fingers had left it red.
It was Casey who arranged the visit the next afternoon. "He asked for you," she said in the jail hallway. "You don't have to go in. You can say no."
Tommy nodded. "I'll go," he said.
The holding cell was small and smelled like bleach and old coffee. Frank sat on a metal bench with his hands folded, and he looked smaller than Tommy had ever seen him. Without the bluster, he was just a tired man in an orange jumpsuit with gray at his temples.
"Hey, kiddo," Frank said softly.
"Don't call me that."
"Okay." Frank nodded. "Okay."
The deputy stood by the door. Tommy stayed near the bars, not close enough to touch.
"They're gonna give me eighteen months," Frank said. "My lawyer already told me. Guilty plea. It goes better if I don't fight it."
"Good," Tommy said.
Frank almost smiled. "Yeah. Probably good." He looked down at his hands. "You know what I keep thinking about? Dale. Your dad."
Tommy stiffened. "Don't."
"No, listen." Frank looked up, and his eyes were wet. "Dale loved you, Tommy. I know I said a lot of things, and I did a lot of things I shouldn't have, but that part is true. That man loved you so much it scared him. He used to call me from Jacksonville, late at night, and he'd say, Frank, I don't know what I'm doing. He said you deserved better than a father who sold out his whole future for a check."
Tommy's throat tightened. He hadn't cried since the courthouse, and he wasn't going to cry now. "He took the money," he said. "That's what he did."
"I know," Frank said. "And he regretted it every single day after. He carried that around like a stone. But he never once regretted you. You were the one thing he got right."
Frank reached into his pocket slowly and pulled out something small and round and gleaming. A brass compass, worn smooth at the edges.
"This was Dale's," Frank said. "He carried it everywhere after your mom died. Said it helped him feel pointed in the right direction, even when he wasn't." He held it out through the bars. "I want you to have it."
Tommy stared at it. "Why?"
"Because I'm not your father," Frank said simply. "I was never built for any of this, Tommy. Being a father, being a guardian, being anything to anybody. Dale tried. I never even tried. I just took. And you kept showing up anyway, so I kept taking." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry, kid. For all of it. For the exits, for the sign, for kicking you out. I'm sorry."
The deputy nodded, and Frank placed the compass in Tommy's open hand. It was heavier than it looked. The brass was warm from Frank's pocket, and the needle trembled under the glass.
"Okay," Tommy said, closing his fingers around it. "Okay, Frank."
"Take care of yourself," Frank said.
Frank pressed his palm flat against the bars for a second, like a wave.
Two weeks later the judge read out the sentence. Eighteen months. Frank stood in his orange jumpsuit and nodded like he had already made his peace with it. He didn't look at Tommy.
Afterward, Silas drove him back to the group home in silence. Tommy held the compass in his lap the whole way, turning it over and over, watching the needle swing and settle. North. It always found north.
That night, alone in his room, Tommy sat on the edge of the bed and cried. He cried hard, with his shoulders shaking. And he wasn't crying for Frank, not really. He was crying for Dale, for the father who had loved him and failed him, who had carried a brass compass through twelve years of drifting and never once pointed himself home.
When the tears stopped, Tommy picked up the compass again. He looped it onto the shoestring beside his mother's ring. The gold band and the brass circle, side by side, one for each of them.
He held them both against his chest and closed his eyes.
"I'm keeping you close," he whispered. "Both of you."