He kept track of the planets on his bedroom wall, counting them before he went to sleep.

“We argue that this is a clear case of neglect,” Carroway said, his voice rising for effect.

“Grant Bellamy can provide a home with stability, private tutoring, and proper care.”

“The father’s business is highly successful, and he wants his son to have the best.”

Nolan shifted in his heavy wooden chair.

The blue fabric of his shirt creaked slightly against the polished oak.

He looked up at the judge, then turned his gaze over to his father.

“Nolan,” I whispered, reaching out to touch his small, tense shoulder.

But Nolan stood up.

The heavy chair scraped loudly against the green linoleum floor.

“Sit down, young man,” Judge Harlan said, though his tone was surprisingly soft.

“I need to say something,” Nolan said.

His voice was small, but it did not shake.

“Nolan, please, honey,” I pleaded, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Grant smiled faintly, a tiny smirk that vanished the moment Judge Harlan looked his way.

“Your Honor, the child shouldn’t be subjected to this pressure,” Carroway said, stepping forward.

“Let him speak,” Judge Harlan countered, raising a single hand to silence the attorney.

Nolan walked out from behind our defense table.

He stood in the middle of the room, looking incredibly small under the high, vaulted ceiling.

He reached down to the bottom hem of his faded blue shirt.

I watched him slide his small thumb along the seam where the blue stitching had been pulled loose.

He worked his fingers into the gap of the double-folded fabric near the hip.

“My mom didn’t buy me bad clothes,” Nolan said, looking directly at the judge.

“I kept this shirt because of what I had to hide inside of it.”

With a sharp tug, Nolan pulled at a loose thread near the hem.