Mason Hamilton Williams was four and a half years old and it was a big long name and he could spell it all himself, Officer Jane Park had just learned.

“I kin even read. I told myself how to read when I was three and a half years old. Grownups didn’t tell me. I told myself. My teacher didn’t tell me. She told me the ABC’s but I already knewn that since I was two and a corter years old. The problem with grownups is. That they don’t listen. To the words.”

Officer Jane Park’s gaze drifted to the child’s light-up Paw Patrol sneakers thumping rhythmically against the metal legs of the chair. Under the bouncing feet a large coffee stain reposed on the dismal carpet.

“My mama was driving. And I saw a sign and I said can we stop. I want to see the Pea Body.” he said.

“And what is a Peabody?” said Officer Jane Park.

“A Pea Body is. A person that’s green. And its body is peas and leaves and things.”

“So did you get to see it?”

“No. Papa said no. Papa said it’s not a real Pea Body. They call the town that. We didn’t see the Pea Body.”

Officer Jane Park frowned sympathetically and nodded her head. The industrial clock ticked, ticked, as she tried and failed to think of something to say.

“I saw a sign and I said can we stop. I want to see the Brain Tree.”

“The Braintree? Did you get to see it?”

“No. Mama said there’s no such thing as a Brain Tree. But it says so. It says so on the sign. Grownups don’t listen. To the words!”

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments. Mason Hamilton Williams swung his legs in a figure eight pattern.

“Would you like a soda, Mason?”

“Mama and Papa don’t let me have any soda.”

Officer Jane Park nodded slowly.

“I see. How about some apple juice?”

“Apple juice. Uh-huh.”

So composed. It was jarring. Officer Jane Park walked down the hall and around the corner, her work boots echoing in the stark chamber. The fluorescent lighting made the top of her brain vibrate. As she passed the front desk, the receptionist stopped her to let her know that the social worker was on his way. At the kitchenette she squeaked a styrofoam cup off the top of the stack and poured it halfway full of the sad syrupy liquid. On a whim she poured coffee for herself. Not likely that she would sleep tonight anyway.

Officer Jane Park made her way back down the hallway to the little room, the “coziest” one they had in the station, and gave the apple juice to Mason Hamilton Williams. He took sips and looked at Officer Jane Park with large green eyes.

 “Then we saw a sign. And it said Do Not Pass.”

Officer Jane Park sighed. She couldn’t bring herself to ask. Best she could do was meet his gaze. There was a small brown clump stuck to his hair, and she realized it was dried blood. She half-reached for it; then withdrew her hand, embarrassed. It wasn’t her place to soothe or groom this child. But if not her, who would do it?

“Officer Jane Park ma’am? Will I go with you?”

Officer Jane Park started for a second, not remembering having introduced herself (Why hadn’t she introduced herself? She should have introduced herself!). She looked down and saw the name badge on her left pectoral, and remembered the boy was a reader.

“No, Mason. A nice man is coming to take you to a safe place to sleep tonight.”

On cue, a young Black man with tortoiseshell glasses frames rounded the corner. The social worker. He squatted down to  Mason Hamilton Williams’ level and introduced himself. He took the boy by the hand, thanked Officer Jane Park, and led him down the hall. Sneakers flashing.

Mason Hamilton Williams turned back to Officer Jane Park.

“It said Do Not Pass. The sign said Do Not Pass!” and he was pleading now.

Officer Jane Park could not keep her face from falling.

“They didn’t listen! To the words!”

– Laura Ker