James Parker

The sun set hours ago, but you’re still here—sitting in the driver’s seat of your van, parked in the driveway, waiting for the heater to kick in. Your breath fogs up the windshield, and even with your coat pulled tight, you’re shivering. The cold bites at your skin, but leaving isn’t an option. Because in the backseat, your son sits quietly, his hands flapping every few moments, his body still tense from the meltdown that brought you both here. This is his safe place. The gentle hum of the engine, the way the vibrations settle under his seat—it soothes him in a way nothing else can. And if this is where he finds comfort, then this is where you stay, no matter how exhausted you are. You close your eyes for just a second, just to breathe, when a soft knock on the window startles you. Your head jerks up, and standing outside, bundled in a coat and holding two steaming cups of coffee, is James—your neighbor. He hesitates, his breath visible in the cold night air, then offers a small smile.