She climbs up into the driver’s seat. “With six kids, a bicycle wasn’t gonna cut it.”

I give her directions to the Moultrie Courthouse, where Rory was taken after his arrest this morning. I don’t have a lot of experience in family court, but I’m familiar enough with the process to fill her in.

“Rory will be assigned a probation officer who’ll review the charges and his history, and make a recommendation to the OAG. The probation officer decides whether he’s released to you today or has to remain at the Youth Services Center until trial. They’re also the ones I’ll talk plea deal with.”

The good news is, I know one of the probation officers at Moultrie intimately. We used to bang frequently until she got engaged. Our parting terms were friendly.

A soft V forms on Chelsea’s forehead. “The OAG?”

“Office of the Attorney General. That’s who would prosecute his case, but don’t worry—it’s not going that far.”

Juvenile cases are very different from adult ones. The system still has hope for delinquents—it’s all about rehabilitation and redemption. Saving them before they’ve gone too far down that dark, wrong road to nowhere. In criminal courts, the main question is, did you do it? In family court, it’s all about why you did it. An orphaned nine-year-old dealing with his parents’ deaths by stealing a car will garner a shitload more leniency than an eighteen-year-old boosting a joyride.

The Moultrie Courthouse is an intimidating concrete building with a cavernous maze of hallways. After passing through security, we’re ushered into a waiting room with a dozen nondescript tables and chairs scattered around and vending machines along one wall. A few other visitors occupy the room, heads huddled, speaking in hushed whispers.

Chelsea and I sit at an empty table. I put the infant carrier with its sleeping cargo on the table, and the blond, baby-haired Regan squirms on her lap. A guard opens a door across the room and walks in with Rory, who’s still wearing his school uniform: tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, a navy blazer.

His young lips are set in a hard frown, his dark blue eyes so full of resentment you can practically hear the “screw you” thoughts. This is not the face of a sad, little soul who knows he messed up—it’s the face of an angry cherub, desperately trying to look badass, who’d rather go down in flames than admit he was wrong.

For a second, I reconsider helping him—a few days in juvenile detention could be just what the doctor ordered.

But then Chelsea wraps her arm around him and kisses his forehead, looking both elated with relief and like she wants to strangle him. “Thank god you’re okay! Everything’s going to be all right, Rory, don’t be scared. What the hell were you thinking? A car? You’re never leaving your room again—ever!”

I lean back in my chair, just watching.

He brushes her off with a rough shrug. “Get off. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” She grimaces, and I see a flash of hurt feelings, too. “You could’ve killed yourself—or someone else.”

“Well, I didn’t, okay? So stop freaking out.”

I’ve seen enough.

“Chelsea, go get Regan a soda or juice.” I pull a couple of bills from my wallet and hand them to her. She hesitates. I tilt my head toward Rory. “Give us a minute.”

Still looking unsure, she sets the two-year-old on her feet and leads her away.

Once we’re alone, Rory sits down. “What are you doing here?”

“Your aunt wanted a good lawyer. Lucky for you, I’m the best—and I happened to have the afternoon free.”

“Whatever.”

I pin him with an assessing stare. “You’re in deep shit, kid.”

So sure he knows everything, he scoffs, “I’m nine. What’s the worst they can do to me?”

“Keep you here for the next nine years. At least,” I tell him simply.

For the first time since he walked into the room, his confidence wavers. His cheeks bloom nervous pink and his voice rises half an octave as he says, “It’s not so bad here.”

It’s a tiny crack in the façade—but still a crack.

I don’t waste time telling him he’s full of shit. I lean forward and explain, “Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to call your aunt back over, and you’re going to apologize for the way you spoke to her.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “Why?”

“Because she doesn’t deserve it.”

He lowers his eyes, almost ashamed. Maybe there’s hope for the punk yet.

“Then you’re going to sit there”—I point at him—“and let her hug you and kiss you all she wants.”

His chin rises, not ready to give up the fight. “And what if I don’t?”

I look him right in the eyes. “Then I’ll let you rot in here.”

And I will.

He doesn’t look happy, doesn’t like being backed into a corner. He wants to come out swinging—to do the opposite of what I’m ordering, simply because it’s an order.

I know what he’s feeling. I know this kid through and through.

He needs an out—a way to give up the battle without feeling like he’s lost the war. So I give him one.

“You don’t need to show me how tough you are, Rory—I can see it. I was a lot like you when I was your age—a tough, pissed-off little asshole. The difference is, I was smart enough not to shit on the people who cared about me.” I raise my eyebrows. “Are you?”