Robert Hayes silenced it after the first buzz. He didn’t want to wake his son just yet.
At sixty-two, Robert moved slowly, his joints stiff from decades of construction work—and from an old injury he carried home. He rubbed the knee that still held a shard of shrapnel and shuffled into the kitchen.
Strong black coffee. Two slices of wheat bread. Crunchy peanut butter, thick the way Ethan liked it. A bright red apple, polished carefully on his sleeve. And a note, written in blocky handwriting:
Good luck on your Physics midterm. Proud of you. – Dad.
By six, they were driving Robert’s dented Chevy pickup toward the towering gates of Westbridge Academy.
Westbridge was the kingdom of generational wealth. Tuition cost more than Robert earned in three years. Stone buildings draped in ivy rose behind wrought-iron fences.
“Can you drop me at the back?” Ethan asked quietly, staring out the window. “I don’t want Tyler to see the truck.”
Robert’s hands tightened on the wheel. “It’s raining.”
“I’m fine, Dad.”
Robert nodded. “Alright. Go show them what you’ve got.”