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Tim’s suit is itchy and tight, but he’s too excited to care.
He’s going to a gala with his parents! His first one ever!
His parents go to galas all the time, and his mother and father always get dressed up so nice and pretty. He’s not really sure what grown-ups do at galas, but he knows it’s important! His mother says that as Drakes, it’s important that they network, which he thinks is just a grown-up word for making lots of friends.
That sounds nice to him. It would be nice to have lots of friends.
Maybe he’ll meet some today! He heard his father say that Mr. Wayne was supposed to be at the winery today, and his mother says that Mr. Wayne has a little boy too. He’s pretty sure Mr. Wayne’s son is at least a few years older than him, but they could still be friends, right?
Tim hopes so. In any case, he’s sure it’s going to be a good day.
It’s hot in the car, but Tim doesn’t complain. The air conditioning is on full blast in the front, his father agitated about the possibility of getting sweat stains on his suit. “Sure hope they’ve got misters or something in the garden,” he frets. “This heat wave is awful.”
Tim agrees. He wishes they would turn on the air conditioning in the back where he’s sitting, but he doesn’t speak up to ask. He knows his parents can get annoyed when he bothers them about silly little things like that, and he doesn’t want them to be in a bad mood right before a party.
His suit is itchy and hot against his skin, but he does his best not to fidget with that. He knows his mother will scold him if he messes up his little tie or the fabric. Instead, he twists his fingers around the soft fabric of his little toy bee, Mr. Bobee. He’s one of his smallest stuffed animals, which is why he chose him to come along on the car ride, smooshing him in his hand so his mother wouldn’t spot him and make him leave him at home.
He knows bringing a toy is childish, and of course he won’t bring him into the gala with him. But just for the car ride isn’t so bad, is it?
Besides, neither of his parents told him he couldn’t bring Mr. Bobee.
Even though it’s not very comfy, he feels very big and proud in his suit, just like his father. His mother even smiled at him that morning when his nanny brought him out all dressed up, and the memory of her smile has brightened his entire day so far, making him feel warm every time he thinks about it.
His parents chat in the front seat as his father drives them, and he watches eagerly through the window as the trees pass by.
He can’t see very much. He’s got a booster seat, but his parents forgot to put it in the car in their rush to get out the door. That’s okay too, he likes watching the tops of the trees blur past them in a wall of Bristol green.
The top of the vineyard comes into view, elegant glass windows glinting in the sun. In the front seat, his mother checks her makeup, smoothing out her summery dress.
He peers up, straining against his seatbelt to look over the bottom edge of the car window, stomach fluttering excitedly. He starts running through all the instructions his parents gave him for how to avoid embarrassing them - keep quiet, don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t spill your food or drink, remember the names of the most important fellow guests that his parents have drilled into him.
He can do this! He’ll make his parents SO proud, and then maybe they’ll be so happy that they won’t even leave next week to go to their next dig in Argentina. They’ll stay and spend time with him, and maybe they’ll take him out to dinner with them to celebrate, and he can tell them all about what he’s been learning from his tutors, and how his tutor said just the other week that he’s the cleverest six year old she’s ever taught, and then they’ll be even happier!
He can see it all play out in his head, and he can hardly contain the excitement and joy that bubbles up inside him.
Even though he knows his mother will scold him for not having quiet hands if she catches him, he cautiously checks to see if she’s looking, and when he sees she’s still checking her makeup, he allows his hands to flutter delightedly, keeping them low in his lap so she won’t see them.
They slow as they pull up to the vineyard, passing through a carefully maintained courtyard that the road curves along. They pull to a stop where a valet waits, and his parents open the doors and step out of the car.
Uncertainly, Tim tugs at his own door handle, but the car’s child safety must be activated, because it doesn’t open. Neither of them comes back to open his door for him, so that must mean he’s supposed to stay where he is for now. He can do that!
Through the tinted window, he watches his father hand the valet the keys, and the valet climbs in. He doesn’t address Tim at all, doesn’t even turn to look back at him. The mirror is angled too high to show even the top of Tim’s tiny head, and he makes no attempt to adjust it to make eye contact with him.
But Tim proudly remembers what his mother told him, rule one of coming with them to events: don’t speak unless spoken to.
He keeps perfectly silent, squeezing his little stuffed bee as the valet pulls the car away from the front and through the loop.
He’s not totally sure where they’re going. His mother didn’t tell him anything about this. But… maybe there’s some sort of second entrance for kids. That makes sense, right? If he’s supposed to be quiet and seen but not heard. It makes sense that maybe there’s a more subtle way that he’s supposed to enter, separate from his parents. He’ll just meet them inside, it’s probably super easy to figure out once he gets there.
He squishes Mr. Bobee to his chest, the fluttering excitement in his tummy feeling a little uncertain as his parents pass out of his sight, entering through the main doors without looking back.
The valet brings them around and turns into a lot beside the vineyard. There’s no covering for shade, and the sun beats down sharply through the windows. Tim watches a bead of sweat trickle down the back of the valet’s neck. They pull into an empty parking space, wide enough to avoid even the risk of scratching the car or either of its neighbors.
The engine shuts off, and with it cuts off even the faint relief of the AC from the front.
The valet opens the door as he places a ticket under the windshield, a hot breeze lazily snaking its way into the backseat. Then, he climbs out and shuts the door behind him, and the air falls as still as a crumpled quilt.
He doesn’t so much as glance at the backseat window as he walks away, leaving Tim alone to wait.
And that’s… that’s probably fine! His parents did say that going out with them was something for big kids to do, and he already knows big kids are supposed to be able to be able to be apart from their parents without throwing a fit, so maybe this is why. Maybe waiting like this is part of every grown-up event, and that’s why he needed to be a big boy before he could come with them.
So yes. He can be a big boy. He can wait, alone.
It’s even kind of exciting! He’s not sure he’s ever been completely alone, without even a nanny nearby.
Without anyone to see, he allows his hands once again to flutter, even letting his small fingers drum against his chest in anticipation, the steady sound reverberating soothingly, and he grins.
He just… well, he wishes they could have left the AC on while he waits.
It’s quiet here. Every couple minutes, another car is brought into the lot and parked, but even that stops before long, the last of the guests presumably having arrived.
The air that starts off cool from the left-over air conditioning warms quickly under the unwavering sun. Tim unbuckles his seatbelt, hissing when the hot metal stings his fingers.
The sun continues to beat down.
He pulls his legs up onto the seat, careful not to mess up his suit as he kneels so he can look out the windows, pressing his hands against the hot glass.
There’s no one in the parking lot, just rows of expensive cars.
He searches their blank windows, wondering if there are any other children waiting to go inside, but he sees no sign of any.
Giving up, he drops back down, shuffling over to the other side of the seat so he’s not directly in the sunlight.
He picks his bee back up from where it had fallen on the floor, wiping his sweaty palms on it as he squishes it anxiously.
Maybe he did something wrong and didn’t realize it. Did he make a mistake? Was he too loud or immature this morning? Did he do something that made his parents decide he wasn’t ready to attend with them?
He swallows, and his throat clicks.
The air is so heavy. He tries fanning himself with his stuffed bee, the way he’s seen his mother fan herself on hot days, but it doesn’t feel as good as he’d hoped.
Maybe he can just crack open the door a little. Surely they won’t be upset by that? Even if it is impolite somehow (he never understands the rules that make something impolite or not), there’s no one around to see.
He tugs on the handle.
Nothing happens.
Oh.
They left the child safety lock on.
To his dismay, he feels tears well up abruptly, hot and gritty against his lids. He sniffles, rubbing at his eyes with his small hands. His cheeks feel flushed and warm.
Sweat glues his bangs to his forehead, and he’s suddenly deeply distressed by the way his suit itches against his sweaty skin. He makes a tiny, upset noise, biting it back as though anyone were here to hear it.
He fumbles with the tie his father looped around his neck, forehead scrunching up at the too-slick fabric between his fingers. The knot doesn’t want to unravel, and he whines. He can’t tell if it’s actually getting tighter, or if it’s just in his head.
The oven-hot air feels like it’s suffocating him.
He doesn’t like this anymore, his excitement fermenting in the summer heat.
He gives up on the tie at last, panting as his head flops back against the seat. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his face.
It doesn’t even feel cool.
His chest feels uncomfortable and achey, like his ribs are too tight. Mr. Bobee has fallen back on the floor by his feet. Part of him wants to reach for it, to cuddle it close and soothe his fluttering heart, but a bigger part of him decides moving that much sounds exhausting.
He stares out the window again, and the sunlight makes his eyes hurt, a dull headache beginning to pound behind his eye sockets.
There’s no one out in the parking lot coming for him.
He closes his eyes, sinking down into his seat with an odd feeling of unsteadiness, like the seat is rocking beneath him.
He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of this as much as he thought he would.
He wishes his mom and dad would just take him home.
***
Jason wishes Bruce hadn’t made him go to this stupid wine tasting.
He told him, didn’t he? He told him it was going to be stupid and awkward and boring, and everyone was going to be all weird about him being there, like he was some sort of fucking exotic pet that Brucie had picked up on a whim and decided to bring along, and when they weren’t asking Bruce in sickeningly sweet tones how the “adjustment” was going while looking at Jason with that stupid little wrinkle in their nose like there was a bad smell in the room they were just going to ignore Jason and he was going to have to stand there like a moron drinking juice because he’s fucking eleven and it’s a wine tasting.
He makes his escape half an hour in. Bruce catches his eye, raising an eyebrow at him, but for once he must have enough sense to realize that if he doesn’t let Jason get some air he’s going to manage to really piss one of these bourgeois assholes off, and Jason refuses to be the one embarrassed if and when that happens.
He darts out through a side door, squinting against the glaring sun and instantly mourning the loss of air conditioning as soon as the door clicks shut behind him.
Jesus Christ, the fucking rich assholes in the countryside steal everything, even the fucking sunlight, apparently.
Glancing around as though Bruce might somehow be lurking in the bright sunlight, he quickly slips out a cigarette and his lighter from where he’s stashed them in a hidden pocket he stuck in his sleeve, safe from the all-knowing gaze of Bruce and Alfred.
A bit of nicotine will make the rest of this miserable event much more bearable, he’s sure of it.
He takes a puff, already feeling some of the tension drain out of him.
Jesus fuck it’s hot out here.
Much as he’d like to linger, let as much of the party as possible burn out without him, his suit is already sticking damply to his skin, the limited shade at the edge of the building not providing nearly enough covering to make it tolerable for long. He takes a last deep drag, deciding even listening to old rich people drone on is worth it if there’s air conditioning.
As he does, he scans the surrounding parking lot, the rows of shiny, expensive cars. Theirs isn’t there, of course. Alfred dropped them off, he’ll come back to pick them up when it’s time to go.
A shadow moves behind the window of one of the cars.
He stills, squinting. Immediately, his eyes flick to the sides of the lot, assuming it was a reflection, but the parking lot is empty except for him.
He refocuses on the car, cataloguing the make, model, and license plate almost as an afterthought.
Nothing. Stillness. The car looks as hollow as every other metal box baking in the lot.
It was probably nothing. A bird flew overhead and he caught the reflection, that was all.
Still, something tugs uncomfortably at his gut.
He steps out from under the shallow awning, the sunlight washing over him like opening an oven door. He drops the cigarette, crushing it under his leather dress shoe and collecting the butt out of habit before strolling briskly across the stovetop-hot asphalt.
Could one of these rich pricks have left their dog in the car?
They wouldn’t have, would they?
It’s like a bajillion degrees out today, even one of these careless dipshits wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave their pedigree little purse dog in the car in the middle of a heatwave.
An ember of fury flares to life at the thought of it, even as he reminds himself that there’s probably nothing there. Still, he walks a bit faster, eager to assure himself that it really was just his imagination.
There’s nothing in the window as he approaches, no furry face panting back at him, and his gut unclenches a fraction.
He leans forward, cupping a hand gingerly against the window so he can peer through the tinted glass, hissing quietly at the heat of it against his skin.
There’s something on the seat.
He presses closer, no longer caring about the burn as he tries to get a closer look at the dark lump.
The lump turns its small, pale face towards him, dark lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.
He rears back in shock.
That’s… that’s a wholeass child in there.
He looks around frantically. Where the fuck are the kid’s parents? He should have seen them in the parking lot. They wouldn’t have gone anywhere else, right?
There’s no one. The parking lot holds nothing but boiling metal and asphalt, and him and the kid in the middle of it all.
The kid moves again, head turning towards the window, eyes half-lidded. Jason can’t tell if he’s actually seeing him or not.
He fumbles for the door handle, cursing when it clicks uselessly.
He puts his palms back against the glass, angling himself to block as much sun as possible. “Hey - hey kid, it’s gonna be okay, I’m gonna - I’m gonna get you out of there!”
The kid’s head lolls against the seat, glassy eyes shifting drowsily.
Jason curses again, mind already running through the various ways he knows how to get into a car, and quickly discounting the majority of them as taking too damn long.
He darts to the other side of the car, eyes on the ground searching for something heavy. There’s nothing, and he mentally curses the winery for not keeping any handy bricks in their hoity-toity parking lot.
Alright. Alright, think. He doesn’t need to be Batman to be resourceful.
…maybe he doesn’t need a utility belt.
Hastily, he undoes his belt buckle, yanking it out of the loops of his pants. He wraps it around his hand, buckle against his knuckles.
He peers through the window again. The kid is still on the opposite side of the car. “Kid, I want you to keep your eyes closed,” he calls anyway, knowing there’s probably no point, but needing to warn him anyway.
Hoping the boy doesn’t choose now to suddenly turn and look, he grips his makeshift brass knuckles, winds up, and slams them into the window as hard as he can.
The glass shatters with the blaring shriek of the car’s alarm.
Knocking aside the remaining chunks of glass, he reaches in, feeling for the handle.
It doesn’t open either.
“Fuck,” he spits, jerking his arm out, the car’s alarm a deafening wail in his ears. Wasting no time, he smashes in the front window. There’s blood on the edges of the glass as he reaches through, but he doesn’t care, because this door opens.
Within seconds, he’s crawling into the back seat. It’s a fucking oven inside the car, even with the broken windows. He gathers the kid in his arms, heart dropping at how limp his little limbs are as he hauls him out.
The asphalt might as well be a baking sheet beneath his knees, and he twists around to lean against the car, draping the kid across his lap rather than lay him down on the scalding surface.
“Hey, hey kid,” he calls over the still-blaring alarm. He shakes him gently, stomach twisting at the way the kid’s head lolls without resistance.
He fumbles for a pulse. It’s not hard to find. The kid’s heart is beating like a trapped animal, rapid and harsh beneath his reddened skin.
The side door he came out of opens, and an irritated-looking attendant steps out, scanning the parking lot for whatever moron he probably assumes has managed to bump into one of the expensive cars.
Jason waves frantically, and his expression shifts to one of confusion, and then alarm. “Call 911!” he shouts. “Get an ambulance!”
The attendant wavers, looking like he’s debating whether he should go get someone or come over to try and help.
“Get a fuckin’ ambulance out here!” Jason bellows, and to his relief the attendant listens this time. He runs back inside, leaving Jason alone with the shrieking car and the dying child.
He brushes the boy’s bangs away from his eyes with shaking fingers. His hair is stiff with evaporated sweat.
There’s no moisture left. His skin is hot and dry to the touch.
His eyes flutter open, brow wrinkled in confusion. “Dad?” he mumbles.
Jason swallows. “Nah, kid,” he says. “We’ll find him, though, don’t worry.”
His eyes slide over him. “Dad,” he mumbles again. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel good.”
The door bangs open again, and this time it’s Bruce who comes striding out, brow furrowed and already half in Batman mode. Jason doesn’t need to bother waving to get his attention, Bruce’s gaze landing on them immediately and hurrying over. Behind him, the attendant trails, a phone pressed to his ear and several other attendants peering out from inside the building curiously.
Clearly they’re not Gotham city folk.
Bruce crouches beside them, eyes scanning analytically over them both. A furrow appears on his brow as he takes in the boy’s face. “Tim Drake?”
The name pings something in his memory, drawing up an image of a couple just like every other rich couple at these events, making some sort of pitch to Bruce while Bruce swirled champagne in his glass and nodded glassy-eyed while visibly running the facts of one of the cases they were working on through his mind rather than focusing on anything they were saying. He doesn’t remember anything about a kid, either mentioned or accompanying them.
“He was alone in the car,” he tells Bruce. “I smashed the window to get him out.”
Bruce doesn’t even look at the bashed-in car, focused on pressing his fingers to Tim’s neck to take his pulse. After a moment, he gives a brisk nod, expression grim and mouth tight with concern. “Let’s get him inside.”
He reaches out to take him from Jason’s arms, but before he can even think about it, Jason tightens his grasp. “I got him,” he snaps when Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, and scrambles to his feet, hauling the tiny body with him.
It should be hard, but it’s not. Even against Jason’s small eleven year old frame, Tim is so tiny he might as well just be an extra large doll. Bruce steadies him with an arm on his shoulder, and they rush as quickly as they can without jostling the kid too much back to the shelter of the winery.
There are now a small crowd of attendants by the door who quickly move out of the way in the face of Bruce’s urgent stride.
The cool air from inside washes over them welcomingly, soaking into Jason’s skin like being doused with a hose. The car alarm is still ringing out in the parking lot behind them, quickly muted when they shut the door. Without it piercing his eardrums, Jason feels somewhat lightheaded.
“Lay him down here on the tile,” Bruce instructs, and Jason practically drops to his knees in his haste to obey. The difference in temperature between the cool tile and Tim’s skin is so extreme that Jason half expects to hear him sizzle as he puts him down.
Instead, he just lets out a quiet whimper. When Jason tries to draw back, his tiny fists grip the rumpled fabric of his shirt, desperate but loose enough that he could bat them away if he wanted to.
He doesn’t try.
Bruce continues to talk to the attendants, kneeling down beside them. “Get some wet cloths and some water,” he orders. “Lukewarm, not cold. Is the ambulance on the way?”
The first attendant, the one who first came out to see what was going on, is standing nearby, a phone still pressed to his ear. He nods quickly.
“Tell them we have a child under five who was left in a car, likely suffering from heatstroke.” He brushes his wrist against Tim’s forehead. “Temperature’s at least 103°,” he murmurs tightly, then raises his voice again to call, “Someone find Jack and Janet Drake.”
“They left him there alone,” Jason hisses, barely managing to keep his voice low. “They could have fucking killed him.”
He doesn’t say aloud that they might still have killed him. Tim is still radiating heat, hot enough that he can feel it no matter how hard he tries to form a bubble between the two of them, trying to give him as much space as possible to cool off.
Tim whimpers again. “Dad,” he murmurs. “Mom.”
Bruce kneels closer. “Hey, chum,” he says gently. “Do you know where you are?”
Tim’s eyes crack open, passing over Bruce blearily as he blinks slowly. “‘M waiting for my parents,” he says softly through chapped lips. “‘M supposed to wait.”
Bruce’s expression tightens, imperceptible to anyone unfamiliar with him. “They’re on their way, honey. Did you come here with them?”
He hums, nodding sluggishly. “‘S my first time,” he mumbles. “‘Don’t like staying home alone.”
Jason’s arms tense around the kid, and his eyes lock with Bruce’s, both a demand and a question.
Fix this.
Will you fix this? Can I trust you to?
And, well. As little time as Jason has been in his life, the answer to that question has to be yes.
“That’s okay, kiddo,” Bruce murmurs, though his eyes are locked on Jason’s. “You won’t have to.”
One of the staff members reappears, a bottle of water and a damp towel in her hands. Bruce takes them with a murmur of thanks, pressing the towel to the back of Tim’s neck, wrapping around the sides to cover his carotid. Tim whines, flinching away from what probably feels like ice against his skin despite the fact that Jason can feel the water trickling down onto his arm is only pleasantly cool.
“Can you take a sip of water for me?” Bruce coaxes, and Tim turns sluggishly towards him.
At that moment, there’s a commotion from further down the hall, and a sharp, commanding woman’s voice reaches them. “ - and why weren’t we fetched immediately?”
The source of the voices, an elegant woman tailed closely by a man in a nice suit, comes around the corner right as the manager Jason saw earlier responds. “Mrs. Drake, as I said, my staff went looking for you as soon as he was identified - ”
Mrs. Drake’s gaze falls on her son, and she cuts the manager off with a gasp and a high cry of, “Timothy!”
Jason instinctively tightens his grip as the couple rush towards them. Mrs. Drake sweeps her dress out of the way so she doesn’t kneel on it before dropping to her knees to fuss over Tim. “Poor sweetie,” she coos.
The man behind her, presumably Mr. Drake, tuts. “Should have spoken up, bud,” he says. “You were so quiet back there, we weren’t even thinking about it.”
“Weren’t even - he’s your fucking kid!” Jason snarls, so viciously that their eyes snap to him in shock. He doesn’t even bother to shrug off Bruce’s hand as it settles on his shoulder warningly. “It’s your fucking job to think about him!”
Mrs. Drake’s eyes have gone flinty and cool. Mr. Drake’s face twists, and he opens his mouth as though to shout right back at him, but Bruce cuts over him before he has a chance. “The ambulance is on its way,” he says, tone daring anyone to talk back to him in this moment. “I expect it will be here shortly, there’s a hospital not far from here.”
By the time he finishes speaking, the couple’s expressions have evened back out, though Mrs. Drake’s lips are pursed tighter than before and Mr. Drake looks like he’s sucked on a lemon. “That won’t be necessary,” she says. “If it’s that close, then we’re perfectly capable of driving him.”
Jason doesn’t bother to feel bad for the satisfaction he gets from getting to sneer, “Actually, I bashed in your car’s windows.”
“You what -”
“A much preferable alternative to losing your son’s life,” Bruce once again knocks Mr. Drake’s words back at him, and, oh, that’s a hint of a Batman growl under his tone now, directed at these people, and Jason feels as protected as if he’s tucked under his new father’s cape. “As I am sure we can all agree.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Drake says, all simpering, high-society sweetness that Jason can spot from a block away. Just as he can spot the way her eyes keep darting to the staff gathered around them, the clear discomfort she’s feeling at having so many eyes on their mistake. He’d enjoy it, if it didn’t make him so furious on behalf of the half-conscious kid still propped up in his lap.
The door to the parking lot behind them swings open suddenly, and another staff member sticks her head in. “The ambulance is here,” she says, speaking loudly over the dueling sounds of the car alarm still beeping and the ambulance’s sirens as it pulls up as close to the building as possible behind her.
Before Jason can get up, Bruce is there, carefully lifting Tim out of his arms. “I’ve got him,” he says quietly, and this time, Jason lets him.
He follows his father out to the makeshift ambulance bay, watching Janet Drake flit around him as he speaks to the paramedics, telling them what happened.
Jack Drake splits off to go investigate the car, and Jason watches him go with narrowed eyes.
Sunlight glitters off the glass scattered around one side of the car, and among it, something yellow catches his attention. With a quick glance to make sure Bruce is still with Tim, he darts away, waiting until Mr. Drake has circled around to the driver’s side to grab the small object off the ground where it must have fallen when he hauled Tim out of the car.
Warmed by the sun, the plush bee almost feels like a living creature as he holds it in his palm.
Unnoticed by any of the adults buzzing around, he slips into the ambulance before anyone can stop him. Tim looks more conscious than he did before, sitting upright on the gurney they’ve put him on while the medics take his vitals. His eyes are still glassy, but they focus on Jason when he hops into the back of the van.
“Hey, baby bird,” he says softly. “Think you dropped this.”
He offers out the bee, and Tim’s expression brightens immediately. “Mr. Bobee!” he cries, reaching for him.
Then, his eyes meet those of his mother’s, sitting beside him and radiating disapproval. His face crumples, and he pulls back his empty hands. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “But that’s okay. You can keep him.”
For a second, Jason wants to throw something straight at his mother’s stupid face, preferably something a lot heavier than a stuffed bee. He considers pushing the toy into Tim’s hands anyway, seeing the way he hugs himself. But then he sees the irritated look Mrs. Drake casts towards it, and has the sudden, awful image of the woman taking Tim’s toy from him and throwing it away the moment there’s no one else around to judge her for it.
“Alright,” he says, glaring at Mrs. Drake. “I’ll keep him, and I’ll take super good care of him, and then you can have him back again next time I see you, when you feel all better.”
Tim looks up, despondence melting away to something tentative and hopeful. “I’m gonna see you again?”
“Hell yeah,” Jason says, and, thinking of how Dickie acts when he’s talking to him, ruffles his hair. “Soon as you’re better.”
And Tim lights up, a grin spreading across his face as bright as the sun outside, and Jason returns it, even as he climbs back out of the van, giving the paramedics room to shut the doors as he goes to stand by his father on the sidewalk.
The ambulance pulls away, lights on, but no sirens, and Bruce’s large hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
“You did a very good job, Jason,” he says quietly. “Tim’s going to be just fine.”
“Yeah,” Jason says, holding the stuffed bee in his hands like something precious, like a promise he intends to keep. “I believe you.”