{Pete}

Pete spent Monday morning trying to pray in his basement study. Lately, it felt like all he was doing in prayer was leaning on a locked door in an empty wall. He whispered his requests and waited there anyway, hoping Jesus could still hear him and would eventually open the door.

When the soft chime of his calendar alert sounded, he drew in his breath and opened his eyes, his stomach starting to churn. It settled a little when he remembered he didn't have to go into the church office today. He hated this feeling—that his church wasn't a safe place for him to be. Every day he prayed for healing from hurt and for the ability to forgive, and then he prayed armour on to head back into the office. The thing about God's armour was that it didn't protect you from people, exactly—not any more than Jesus protected himself from being hurt by people.

In a very secret corner of his mind, Pete tracked the growing tension with his board of Elders and guessed how much longer it would be before serving this church wrecked him. He hadn't decided what he would do when he could no longer armour up and wade back in.

Cary was at the kitchen table in an old T-shirt and jeans, his lunch bag stuffed with sandwiches and a bottle of water as if he was heading to work.

"You remember we have a meeting with the Crown prosecutor today?" Pete asked.

Cary looked at him, a little blank. "What's he want me for?"

"Trial starts in a week. He probably wants to go over your testimony."

Cary's eyebrows drew down, and he folded his hands and put them under the table. "I said everything...to the social worker. And the cops," he said slowly. "There's a video."

They had talked about this, Pete was almost sure. At least...he had talked about this. Cary had been pretty frozen then and hadn't said much back. He should have checked to make sure it had sunk in. "Cary, you have to testify at the trial. In person."

Cary drew back and his whole body went still, watching Pete. "What?"

Pete slowed down, his heart sinking as he realized that in spite of meeting with the prosecutor months ago, Cary hadn't processed this yet. "You have to take the stand and tell the judge what your father did. So they can make their verdict. That's just how it works."

Cary's eyes were dark with pupil in his white face. "With him there?"

Pete winced. "Yes. I'm sorry, Cary—it doesn't seem fair to me, either. But our justice system says your father is innocent until a trial proves his guilt. Your testimony is a big part of the case against him."

Cary looked away quickly and put his hand over his mouth. Pete didn't press it, and Cary followed him to the van, as white and silent as someone about to be strapped in for a lethal injection.

{Cary}

The Crown prosecutor's office was on the bottom floor of a concrete high rise downtown. The blinds were closed in the waiting room, but Cary could still hear traffic passing, and the midday sun made the room stuffy and hot. Pete was quiet beside him, reading something on his phone.

Cary was sweating and his mouth was dry. He had thought he was done. He had spent a whole day at the police station talking to them, and they had stripped him to his briefs and taken pictures of every scar, every bruise. He'd had nightmares for weeks after. He didn't even know if he could open his mouth about those things with his father in the room.

When the receptionist had waved them into his office, he'd stayed behind Pete, checking the room. It was cool inside, and darker than the waiting area. The desk and shelves were gleaming, and the furniture looked expensive. The man behind the desk glanced up from his screen and said, "I'll be with you in just a moment." He tapped a few more notes into his laptop, then turned his chair and folded his hands, glancing from Pete, who was seated in a leather chair across from him, to Cary, who was standing with his arms crossed next to the door.

Cary hadn't paid attention to his lawyer before this meeting. He noticed that the man's hands were manicured and soft, his suit jacket was tailored to conceal a rounded paunch, and his smile was the kind of polite mask Cary's mother put on every day. He knew the type; the only question was what sort of creature was under the mask.

"Cary, why don't you have a seat," the man said. His voice sounded like someone who talked on the radio.

Pete looked back at him, an anxious crease in his forehead. Cary stayed where he was. "I changed my mind. I don't need no lawyer. I don't want no trial." He met the other man's eyes challengingly.

"Cary..." Pete said.

The prosecutor waved his hand dismissively. "No, it's fine." He folded his arms on the desk and leaned forward, rubber lips pulled up in a smile. "Listen, kid, it's not up to you. I represent the Crown." At Cary's blank look, he slowed down, gesturing with his hands like Cary was stupid or hard-of-hearing. "The Crown prosecutes people who break the law. See, in this country, we have a law that says children have a right to be safe and cared for. When someone is suspected of breaking that law, it's the Crown's job to prove those charges. Sure, you can make a personal decision to forgive and forget—on your own time. When it comes time for the trial, you're bound by law to tell the whole truth of what happened, just like everyone else in that room."

Cary hated this guy more with every word. His chest was tightening, making it hard to breathe. "Then I take it back. It didn't happen. I lied to the police about shit that was my own fault. The Crown can fuck itself."

The man snorted. He spun the fat file on his desk so Cary could see. "You beat yourself with a belt?" Cary didn't drop his eyes to the photos, glaring at the prosecutor.

The man rolled his eyes. "Kid, please. I have school reports here. I have hospital records and written statements from household staff. Regardless of the story you're spinning now, this makes a hell of a case against your father. He's going to trial. This," he said, spreading his hand over the slick photos of red and purple stapled to page after page of forms, "compels me to act and prosecute your father to the fullest extent of the law."

The prosecutor's face had hardened. He wasn't kidding around. Cary dropped into the chair next to Pete, his ears ringing like the man had boxed them. He didn't know what all those words meant, but he knew there was no way back. Cary had known that, really, the moment he'd made the phone call to Child Protection.

The prosecutor talked a lot about what he would do and what Conall's defense lawyer would do, and then what he would do next. Cary felt like his chair had tipped over and he was falling. The beige office and the prosecutor receded; they appeared to be underwater, dimly lit and wavering. Cary opened and closed his eyes, trying to breathe.

Pete was saying something—they were talking about Cary. The prosecutor was looking at him, waiting for him to answer some question he hadn't heard past the ring in his ears and the thunder of his own heart.

"Fine," Cary said. "Whatever." He shoved to his feet and got out of there.

{Pete}

Pete was barely able to hold his temper and absorb the last details they needed to know, the when and where they needed to show up for the trial. Half his mind was following Cary down the hallway, worrying about where he would end up. The prosecutor's bedside manner left more than a little to be desired, and he hoped he handled Cary better in court.

Finally, he was shaking the man's hand hard and hurrying out of the office.

Cary wasn't in the hall, in the bathroom, or in the waiting room. Pete took the stairs down two at a time and burst out of the office building, looking up and down the busy sidewalk.

Cary was on the bus bench across from Pete's van, his hands gripping the edge of the seat on either side of his legs, and his shoulders bunched like he was going to tear the bench in half. Pete let out his breath, smoothing a hand over his mouth. Thank you, Lord.

Pete settled gently on the other end of the bench, looking sideways at Cary. Cary's eyes were closed, and there was sweat on his upper lip and forming dark stains under the arms of his shirt. Pete could see him shaking, every line of his body tense and braced.

"Cary?"

Cary let out a gasping breath, his eyes opening and finding Pete's face. They were dark with terror. "Do you know where you are?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," Cary said in a strangled voice. "Here. But I'm going to be...going to be there with him. And I can't—" his face broke, twisting. "—I can't do it. I can't—Jesus. Liam." He put his arms over his head, his hands bunched into fists.

Pete looked out at the passing traffic. The truth was, Cary was probably going to lose his hold on where he was and relive the basement in front of his father and the courtroom while he gave his testimony, and there was no way to rescue him from that. No one was going to be able to deny he had been traumatized when he was done.

He put his hand on Cary's shoulder, feeling the shaking in the muscle there. Cary shot to his feet, turning on him.

"I told them already!" His face was red and contorted, and his holler cut through the street noise, causing a couple people to jump and look in their direction. "They know everything already! There's fucking pictures of every fucking—" He whirled and drove his fist into the plexiglass side of the bus shelter. Pete jolted to his feet as the wall folded in a web of lines under Cary's blows.

Pete didn't think: he just wrapped his arms over Cary's chest and hauled him away. Immediately he felt his mistake as Cary broke his hold and fought free, one flying elbow catching Pete's cheekbone hard enough to make his teeth rattle. They staggered apart on the sidewalk, Cary's shoulders colliding with the bus shelter.

Pete turned his back quickly to check if his nose was bleeding, his heart still pounding. The cuff of his shirt came away clean, and he ran his tongue over his teeth. All in one piece. He turned back to Cary, cautious now.

Cary had slumped to the ground, his arms covering his head. The skin on his knuckles was broken, and there was a trail of blood curving down his forearm where he had cut his wrist on the edge of the plexiglass. Above his bowed head, the whole side of the bus shelter was caved in around a jagged hole in the middle of a spider web of cracks.

Pete's pocket vibrated abruptly, the jangling ring making him jump. He fumbled inside his pocket to click the ringer off without pulling it out, his shoulders knotting a little more with tension. He had a lunch meeting with an Elder today, but he needed to scrape the pieces of this situation together and get Cary home safely first.

He took a breath and crouched in front of the young man. "Cary," he said in a clear, firm voice over the street noise.

Cary made a sound, drawing his arms tighter over his head.

"We're done here. You're safe. Let's get in the van and go home."

There was a moment when he was afraid he would be stuck here coaxing Cary out of this corner for another hour, but then he unfolded and stood up, walking to the van with his head down. Pete sighed with relief when Cary climbed into the van on his own, and he went around to climb into his own seat.

Cary was folded forward over his knees, his eyes on the shattered bus shelter. His face flinched when Pete shut his door, and he took a slow, shaky breath. "Sorry I fucked that up."

Pete tried to laugh. He found he was a bit unsteady. "Had me scared a moment there. Thought we lost you."

Cary ducked his head. "Still here." He closed his battered hand around his knee. "I'll pay for the damage."

"That would be good," Pete said, putting the key in the ignition. "I'll call the transit people when we get home."

They were across the bridges and on the freeway before Cary spoke again. "Just one more time, right?" His question broke a little on the end. Pete couldn't see his face.

"Yes." He made his voice steady.

"How long will they ask me questions?"

"Maybe an hour?" Pete guessed. "At least...it won't take all day. Like it did with the police."

There was a pause. "Will there be something—if I need to throw up?" Cary's voice was thin.

Pete reached across and put his hand gently over Cary's battered hand. Cary's skin was freezing and sticky with blood. "I'll make sure there is. Just one afternoon and then your part is over."

Cary's fingers found the cuff of Pete's shirt and held on. Pete could hear him trying to breathe slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth like the counsellor had told him to do when he felt a panic attack coming on.

Pete breathed with him. "You can do this, Cary," he said quietly. "You survived. It's over. Just one afternoon of testifying, and it's over for your mom too, and Liam."

*How do you feel about the fact that Cary has to testify in court? I was so mad when I found this out from my police and lawyer friends. There's been some shifts to better accommodate survivors of sexual and childhood abuse, like using a screen to block the view of their abuser, or video testimony, but those are not always made available, and they were not present in 2007, when this story is set.*