I stared at Mason.
Tyler continued.
“And the listening table that started here?”
He touched booth seven.
“That’s been copied too.”
My knees suddenly felt weak.
“Copied where?”
“Community centers. Schools. Veterans’ groups. Youth organizations.”
Mason interrupted.
“They aren’t therapy.”
Tyler nodded.
“Correct.”
“They are peer-support spaces.”
“Correct.”
“There are rules.”
“A lot of rules.”
“Rules prevent confusion.”
“I know, buddy.”
Mason seemed satisfied.
Tyler looked at me.
“This started because your son understood something the rest of us missed.”
“What?”
Tyler smiled.
“People don’t always need someone to fix them.”
My chest cracked open.
“Sometimes,” Tyler said, “they need one person willing to sit at the same table.”
That was when I began to sob.
Not delicate tears.
Not graceful crying.
Full, humiliating, shoulder-shaking sobs in the middle of Miller’s Diner.
Hannah wrapped an arm around me.
David stood on my other side.
And Mason watched with visible concern.
