The car was too quiet as always with Mr. King.
Usually Clyde, his assistant, was the one in the backseat—chattering on a call, sighing about the traffic, or reminding them not to stop too close to the gates. But today, it was Mr. King. And the silence felt sharper.
The driver adjusted the rearview mirror. This wasn't the old driver. It was an assistant to the original driver.
Mr. King sat with his eyes closed. His face wasn't hidden this time around. He didn't feel the need to, where he was going his face didn't matter.
The driver looked at the mirror again.
He cleared his throat quietly, eyes flicking back to the road.
They were headed toward the east side to an elementary school. And that was what made the whole thing strange for the driver.
It was usually Clyde who came this way. It was Clyde who sometimes picked up a little girl child. Maybe his daughter? No one really asked. It only happened a few times, and always last-minute.
But this… this wasn't Clyde. This was Mr. King.
And the driver kept thinking, Why would a man like him be going to an elementary school when he has an empire to run?
It didn't make sense.
Unless this was about Clyde. Maybe he was doing Clyde a favor? Helping him pick his kid up? Was Clyde sick?
The driver glanced again, instinctive.
King's eyes were still closed and his face still unreadable.
He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. He didn't understand anything at all.
.
When they got to the school, King got down from the car, walking towards the compound.
It was a dull compound, and the school was old. The playground looked like it had seen better decades. But, it was the elementary school he was brought up in, so he valued it and planned to renovate it during the upcoming election for a presidential candidate.
There were no kids outside as it wasn't yet closing hours—well it was few minutes to closing hours actually. But there was a sound and it came from behind the slide.
It was a stifled, thin cry. Like the person crying was trying to hide it but didn't know how.
King walked slowly, hands in his pockets, the long hem of his coat catching against the gravel. His driver had stayed in the car.
When he rounded the corner, he stopped.
There was a boy crouched near the base of the slide. Small. Helmeted. And his elbows on knees. His hands were clenched tight around something. Maybe a toy or nothing.
The boy didn't look up. Just kept rocking gently. "Teacher say… teacher say Reed liar," the boy mumbled. Then again, louder, "Teacher say Reed liar. Teacher say. Teacher say."
It wasn't a chant. It wasn't music. It was rhythm. This King somehow figured out. The boy was telling a truth in the only way the he knew how to.
Mr. King didn't move closer at first. He just stood there, hands still in his pockets, watching the boy echo himself into calm.
The helmet looked too big for his head—he couldn't even see the boy's face his shoulders were too thin, and the scuff marks on his shoes weren't from games. They were dragged lines. Kicks made under desks.
"Teacher say…" the boy whispered again, almost like a hum now.
It was then he noticed the scratch on the boy's helmet. It was faint and fresh. And definitely didn't look like it was from an accident.
He stepped forward. One step. Then another. The boy stopped rocking then.
Mr. King crouched down slowly and carefully. He didn't reach out to the boy, he just met the boy's eyes, which flicked to him once, then away. The boy was avoiding his eyes, he was scared.
"Do you want me to call the teacher?" Mr. King asked quietly.
The boy blinked. Then whispered, "Teacher say Reed liar."
He nodded once. "Alright."
He understood the boy somehow. His teacher called him a liar. Probably he was bullied and reported it to the teacher and the teacher might not have understood him and called him a liar.
Still crouched, Mr. King looked down at the boy's hands. What he was holding wasn't a toy. It was a badge sticker—those shiny, fake police ones but sharp enough to cut. A thin line of dried blood ran across the foil where the boy had gripped it too hard.
'It would hurt him if he kept gripping it so tightly.'
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small candy wrapped in a paper bow from his inner pocket.
"Trade?" King asked.
The boy's eyes lifted slowly. He stared at the white tiny bow, then at Mr. King's gloved fingers. Then, almost like instinct, he handed over the crushed badge and took the bow. No smile. No sound. Just an unspoken contract.
Mr. King stood. And that's when he heard: "DAD!"
It was a girl's giddy and sharp voice.
He turned back.
She was running toward him at full speed, pigtails bouncing, backpack hanging off one shoulder. One shoe almost came off mid-stride. She launched herself into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
He caught her easily, lifting her up in one motion.
"Daddy," she whispered this time, breath hot on his neck.
He exhaled. Slowly he looked back once—Reed was still sitting there, helmet on his head and only his eyes shown, staring down at the white small bow that weighed more than a mere paper because of what was inside it.
He looked back at his daughter. "Let's take you to your mother."
She nodded, already fiddling with the buttons on his coat, clinging to him like glue.
As they walked to the car, he didn't look back again.
The girl in his arms had a name but he didn't even know it. Yes, he didn't know his daughter's name, and he didn't even care.
He opened the car door. The driver didn't bother to ask anything.
But if he had, Mr. King would have told him the truth. That four years ago, he had made a mistake. He slept with someone who professed a puppy love to him one night, a woman.
And he was still paying for that mistake.
"Dad," the girl suddenly called. King turned to give her his attention and she continued, "My drawing book. It's still in the class."
King: "!!!!"