“Yeah, of course,” I say.
“Hey, Mom. What’s—” His face changes. “What? Is he okay?” He closes his eyes and pinches his temples. “Yeah.” He pauses. “Yeah, I know. It’s been a crazy week, Mom.” He sighs, looking like the worn down Oliver from three days ago. “I’m sorry, Mom. Tell him I’ll be there soon.”
He hangs up, jaw clenched tight. The overhead lights flicker as we pass under a bridge.
“Oliver?” I touch his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Evan.” His voice is rough. “He’s doing bad. The TBI affects his emotional regulation, and wedding stress triggered a complete meltdown. I guess Mom found him sobbing on the bathroom floor. He’s been there all night. He called Sloane at three a.m. and told her he can’t be the husband she deserves because,” Oliver clears his throat, looking like he’s trying not to cry, “because his brain doesn’t work right.”
The wheels thrum over a switch, jolting the car slightly. My chest tightens. “Oh, Oliver. I’m so sorry.”
“Four years since one punch changed everything, and he still can’t trust his own mind.” His fist clenches on his knee. “One drunk guy’s anger, and my brother lives with mood swings, anxiety, fear that his brain will betray him at the worst moment.”
I feel sick. This is exactly the kind of case I’ve worked on dozens of times. It’s so familiar, I could write it myself. No matter who’s at fault, the collateral damage stretches for years. For lifetimes.
A conductor’s voice murmurs over the intercom, muffled by static. The noise of a wrapper crinkles from a few rows back. The ordinary sounds make the story feel heavier, somehow.
“I can’t stop thinking about the guy who did it,” Oliver says bitterly. “He walked away, Poppy. Your dad got fifteen years, and this guy got anger management classes and community service. He’s probably out there living his best life right now while Evan’s in a bathroom on his wedding day, terrified his damaged brain is going to ruin his future. I freaking hate Darren Murphy.”
The name hits like a slap.
Darren Murphy.
Bar fight. New York. TBI.
Oh.
Oh no.
Darren Murphy was my case.
I remember now. It was my first big case as an intern—the one I was so proud of because we got the judge to see Darren’s humanity past the injury. His abusive childhood. His girlfriend’s trauma. The fact that the other guy had picked the fight.
That guy was Evan Fletcher.
I can remember every client’s name I’ve helped, but never the victims. As hard as I’ve tried to respect their pain with the mitigating circumstances of my clients, I learned quickly that if I let the victims fully into my heart, I couldn’t function. I’d freezeup completely, unable to advocate for anyone. So I had to focus on the person in front of me—the one I was hired to help.
So no, I don’t remember Evan Fletcher.
I remember the angry, hurting young man whose family was so hostile during the proceedings, they ignored the fact that their son had done anything wrong. They didn’t think it mattered at all that he picked a fight with my client—Darren—who was abused as a child and had no priors or history of violence until he was literally backed against a wall in a bar fight with his pregnant fiancé present.
That was Oliver’s brother.
The room tilts. The train leans into a curve, pressing me lightly against the window.
“Poppy?” Oliver’s looking at me now. “You okay? You just went white.”
“I—” I can’t breathe. The recycled air feels thin.
“Poppy, what’s wrong?”
My hands are shaking. “I need to tell you something.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Wary. “Okay …”
“In Wilson. When you mentioned the organization—Mercy in Justice.” The words are coming out too fast. “That’s where I worked. For four years. I quit this week, but I was there. I worked there.”
He goes very still. Outside, the tracks cross an open stretch—gray sky, flat farmland that flashes past the window in quick, dizzying bursts.
