Chapter 3: Back to the Lounge

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Chapter Two

That day, after finishing work, I got permission from my company to leave early.

My boss—never much for small talk—just gave me a distracted wave as I grabbed my keys and slung my coat over my shoulder. It felt like any other Thursday, the kind where you count down the minutes until dinner.

On my way home, I bought some spicy chicken wings to add to dinner.

They were Tyler's favorite—extra sauce, celery on the side. The grease bled through the paper bag as I walked the block from the deli, whistling a tune I barely remembered.

But as I was passing the glass window of a side-street gaming lounge, I suddenly caught sight of a familiar face.

The old place was a little rundown, neon sign buzzing, crowded with kids hunched over glowing screens. The air reeked of Axe body spray and the neon glow bounced off rows of Doritos bags stacked behind the counter. Tyler's hoodie stood out even in the dark, the bright red sleeves he always refused to wash. My heart skipped a beat.

My son.

There was no mistaking him—same restless bounce in his leg, same lopsided grin as he talked trash with his friends.

He was supposed to be in his junior year of high school, sitting at his desk preparing for the SATs.

His mom and I had been all over him about test prep books and practice exams. He'd promised—just that morning—that he was heading straight to study hall after last period.

But school wasn't even out yet, and there he was, excitedly sitting at a booth in the gaming lounge, shouting things like, "Pentakill!" and "Don't steal my kill!"—words I didn't really understand.

I remember watching his fingers fly across the keyboard, trash-talking like a pro. The words meant nothing to me, but the excitement in his voice was pure Tyler.

A surge of anger rose in my throat for a moment.

It was that old, familiar feeling—disappointment, frustration, the fear that he was slipping away from the future we'd mapped out for him.

But I didn't blame him.

I'd skipped class once or twice myself, ducking out for a burger or a movie, always thinking I'd get away with it. I remembered how harsh my own dad had been when he found out. I promised myself I wouldn't repeat those mistakes.

When I was young, I too had suffered the yelling and punishments of my parents, and I knew that wasn't the right way to communicate.

Their anger had never made me a better kid, just a sneakier one. So I took a deep breath, counted to ten, and let the anger cool.

So I went into the gaming lounge and, after some gentle persuasion, took him back to school.

I crouched beside him, put a hand on his shoulder, and spoke quietly so his friends wouldn't hear. We had a long, low talk—me explaining, him rolling his eyes, but finally, grudgingly, agreeing. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and we walked out together.

I still remember, as I watched the late afternoon sunlight outside the window and my son's figure growing smaller in the distance, a subtle sense of happiness welling up in my heart.

He turned and gave me a half-smile, one of those rare, real ones. For a second, I felt like I'd done something right, like we were on the same team.

But I never imagined that just half an hour later, I would receive terrible news.

The phone vibrated in my pocket as I set the wings on the kitchen counter. I almost didn't answer. The world stopped on the second ring.

My son's school had caught fire.

The dispatcher couldn't say much, just that there'd been an accident, that parents needed to come right away. My hands shook so hard I could barely grab my keys.

Even worse, the source of the fire was his classroom.

It was the science wing—the same place Tyler always complained about being too stuffy, the same classroom where I'd dropped off cupcakes for his birthday just a few months earlier.