The first to arrive were the quiet ones—the retired English teacher, the custodian who likes history books, a few curious students.
Then came the storm.
Brenda marched in, followed by twenty other parents. They held their phones up like shields, livestreaming everything. They were angry. They were scared. They loved their children, and they had been told that I was hurting them.
Behind Brenda trailed her teenage son, Leo. He had his hood pulled up tight, hiding his face. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor tiles.
I stood by the checkout desk. My hands were shaking, but I kept them behind my back.
“Welcome,” I said. “The coffee is fresh.”
“We aren’t here for coffee, Sam,” Brenda snapped. She held up a printed screenshot of the book page. “We’re here for this. Page 144. It describes a panic attack. It talks about wanting to end it all. Why are you exposing my son to this darkness?”
The phones zoomed in on my face. The room went silent.
“You’re right,” I said softly.
The crowd blinked. They expected a fight. They expected a lecture on the First Amendment.
