During Indigenous Peoples’ Day, the librarian held my grandson’s badge; I presented the check in rec

During Indigenous Peoples’ Day, the librarian held my grandson’s badge; I presented the check-in record and…

The snap of my grandson’s badge under the acrylic hit like a gavel, and the librarian—chin lifted, cardigan buttoned to the throat—let the word “procedure” cut the air while the line behind us stiffened: fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects, lemon-polished counter gleaming, my blue folder open like a small courtroom—entry log stamped, teacher’s authorization signed—while Caleb’s shoulders folded in that quiet way kids learn when the world decides their names are smaller than a rule no one will read aloud.
I watched her eyes skim past his face as if he were a smudge on glass, the attendant’s screen washing him in cold blue, the room dividing itself—those who look away, those who pretend not to see—while paper dust and toner hung like a thin fog, and I felt the old grit rise in my hands, the same steadiness that carried freight and families and Sunday chairs, and I promised the lens and the room this: before the clock coughs out another minute, I will pull the policy from the shadows, stitch log to signature, and make this counter say his name back—out loud—when the turn you don’t see coming finally lands.

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