“He retired. My grandfather had died while I was in Iraq, so I came home for his funeral and found out that he’d left the house to me. I sold it to Father Dyson for a song.” He paused. “You know that idiom—‘for a song’?” Because he’d learned from Greg that English idioms didn’t always translate when signed.

“It means for cheap.”

“Close enough. Anyway, Father Dyson lives there now, and he has the most amazing vegetable garden in the summer. I’ve always wanted a garden like that.”

Michael’s gaze became intense. “Did Father Dyson coach little kids in soccer?”

Diesel’s mouth curved. God, the kid was quick. “He coached the Pee Wee leagues. Still does.”

“You’re trying to be like him. Mentoring kids like Greg. And me. And Joshua.”

Diesel nodded. “All but the priest thing. I like Dani too much to take a vow of chastity.”

Michael laughed, a real laugh. Then he sobered. “Did you ever tell Father Dyson why the white coats bothered you?”

“Nope. And he never asked. He may have guessed, but we’ve never talked about it. He just made sure no one wore white coats when I was around. He’s a good man.”

Michael’s eyes grew shiny. “I’m glad you had him,” he signed.

“I’m glad I had him, too,” Diesel said.

“Me, too,” Dani murmured from the other side of the doorway.

Diesel stood up and gathered the tea things. When his back was to Michael, he said, “We’re wrapping up, Dani. If you don’t want him to know you were sitting there, you should go now.”

“I will. I’ll wait for you in our room.”

Our room. Hearing the words was more of a relief than he’d expected. He’d known Dani wouldn’t blame him for what happened to him as a child, but he must have been afraid that she’d back away from him.

But she hadn’t. Our room.

He turned back to Michael. “I’m going back to bed. Should I text Meredith and ask her to come for a session tomorrow? I mean today. After we’ve all slept.”

“Yes, please. And Coach?”

“Yes, Michael?”

The boy’s swallow was audible. “Thank you. For telling me. I know you didn’t have to.”

He met Michael’s gaze head-on. “Do you think worse of me, knowing that my mother’s husband raped me?”

“No.”

“Good. Your story is nobody’s business but yours, Michael. If you never want anyone to know, that’s your decision. But the people who love you—the ones who really matter—won’t think worse of you. I never told Marcus, but he guessed. And he’s still my best friend.”

Michael’s nod was shaky. “I still hate my mother.”

“For what it’s worth? I hate her, too, and I’m not sorry for it.”

Another shaky nod. “Good night, Coach.”