Chapter 2

The next morning, I walked into the sheriff's department, the velvet box clutched in my hand. The place smelled of stale coffee and indifference. Sheriff Brody was a big man, his gut straining the buttons of his uniform. He was cleaning his nails with a pocketknife when I walked in.

He didn't get up. He just waved me to the beat-up chair in front of his desk.

I told him everything. The late hit, the doctor's diagnosis, Blakely's threat at the hospital. I laid it all out, my voice steady despite the anger churning inside me.

Brody listened, his expression never changing. When I finished, he leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest.

"Owen, it's football. Boys being boys. Things get heated on the field."

"It was intentional, Sheriff. It was assault."

"Can you prove that? You got a video showing his intent? Without that, it's just your word against his. And the Blakelys... well, they're important people in this community."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I hear he made you a generous offer. A man in your position should think hard before turning that down. Don't cause trouble where there isn't any."

He dismissed me. Just like that. I walked out into the harsh sunlight, the feeling of helplessness a physical weight on my shoulders. The system wasn't just broken; it was owned.

My last hope was a local lawyer, a guy named Peterson whose office was a dusty room above a hardware store. He listened patiently, nodding as I spoke. But when I said the name "Blakely," his face changed. The professional sympathy vanished, replaced by a look of weary resignation.

"Mr. Hughes," he said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry for what happened to your boy. I truly am. But I can't take this case."

"Why not?"

"Because we'd lose. In this county, suing Mr. Blakely is like suing the courthouse itself. Every judge, every official... he has them. You'd be bankrupted by legal fees before you ever saw a courtroom. My advice? Take the money. It's the only justice you're going to get."

I left his office feeling colder than ever. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was a video from an unknown number. I opened it, and my stomach turned to ice.

It was Ryan Blakely and his friends in the school hallway. They were surrounding Caleb, who was leaning heavily on his crutches. Ryan was mimicking him, taking exaggerated, limping steps, while his friends howled with laughter. Caleb just stood there, his head down, taking it.

A text message followed the video. It was from Mr. Blakely.

"Drop it, or I'll make sure this video is the least of his problems. I'll ruin his reputation so no college will even look at him, scholarship or not."