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“I do.”

Tanner shook his head hard. “No. You know what the words say. That isn’t the same thing.”

Miles nodded. “Then tell me the difference.”

Tanner looked up at him properly then, anger flashing back to life because he couldn’t believe Miles was asking. “The difference is I’ve heard words like that before.”

He could feel the heat in his own face, the tightness in his throat. The bus, the people, the whole station could have disappeared and it would have made no difference. He was back in another room with adults talking over him in soft, careful voices that made everything worse.

“Follow-up means they already think something’s wrong,” he said. “Assessment means they come in and look around and decide what kind of home this is. Next steps means they’ve already got steps in mind. They don’t send extra people because things are fine.”

Tanner kept going because now it was out and he couldn’t seem to stop it. “And child to be present.” His voice cracked on the last word and he swallowed hard. “Why does she need to be there if not so they can see her and decide? Why does some stranger need to stand in my house and look at her room and her clothes and ask me questions that all sound normal until the wrong answer means something?”

The last few words came too fast. He heard them and hated that he sounded near panic again. He dragged in a breath and tried to get control back.

Miles nodded again. “That’s what you saw.”

“That’s what it says.”

“That’s what it felt like.”

Tanner’s mouth flattened. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it sound like something it isn’t.”

Miles shook his head. “I’m not making it something it isn’t. I’m separating what scared you from what’s actually happened so we can deal with both.”

Tanner laughed again, quieter this time. “That sounds like the sort of thing someone says right before everything goes to shit.”

For the first time, something sharper moved through Miles’ face. Not anger. Frustration, maybe. The kind he was trying hard not to show.

“Alright,” he said. “Then let me say it a different way.” Miles kept his voice steady. “I’m not asking you to pretend that letter didn’t hit every bad place in you. It did. I can see that. I’m asking you to stop long enough to let me help with what comes next instead of making choices from the worst moment in your head.”

Tanner looked at the bus again because it was easier than standing with what Miles had just said. The doors were still open, but only just. The driver was watching now with the strained patience of someone deciding how much longer he was willing to wait. Savannah stirred and lifted her head a little. Her lashes were clumped with tears. She looked from Tanner to Miles and back again.

“Home?” she whispered.

That one word broke something in Tanner. He had left because he thought he was protecting her. Now she was exhausted, and frightened, and asking for the place he’d carried her away from.

His fingers loosened a fraction on the bags.

Miles saw it but he didn’t react. He just stayed still and let Tanner have the time he needed.

Savannah made a reaching motion then. Not fully toward Miles. Just enough that her hand lifted off Tanner’s chest and hovered for a second in his direction before she gave up and curled it back into the fabric of Tanner’s hoodie.

Tanner shut his eyes for one second and when he opened them, he looked at Miles. “I can’t lose her,” Tanner said, and hated how weak he sounded.

“You’re not losing her tonight.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m standing here telling you we’re going home, not handing her over to anyone.”

That wasn’t enough. Tanner knew it wasn’t enough. It didn’t solve the letter. It didn’t cancel the assessment. It didn’t make him legally anything. But it was enough to stop the next step toward the bus.

His hands were shaking badly now, he couldn’t hide it anymore. The adrenaline that had kept him going had burned out.