In time, the station cut away from Uncle Neal’s place. They showed the anchorwoman. She guided her bangs into place and then started talking about Shelby, speaking reverently, speaking of Shelby as a hero. She had followed the nephew out to the bunker. Neal Showers had been sick enough not only to kidnap a little girl, but to force his nephew to help with the keeping. The anchorwoman was flabbergasted at the things that happened in the world. She promised that in the coming hours she would have full reports on Shelby, on the nephew, and on the bunker itself. She promised to describe in detail the conditions the little girl had endured.
Toby removed his blankets and sat himself on the edge of the bed. Shelby. Shelby had figured it out. Somehow Toby was glad it had been her and no one else. She had never underestimated Toby, had she? Toby was relieved that Shelby knew the truth about him. He made his way to the window, one hand on the wall, and pulled the cord, dropping the blinds. He twisted the plastic staff and the room grew dim again.
The commercials came and went and the anchorwoman began talking about Toby. Earlier she hadn’t said his name, but now she did. The woman spoke of him in pitiful tones. She said the name Milton Hibma. Mr. Hibma? Here he was, wearing a tie. Mr. Hibma was trying to get temporary custody of Toby. He was the boy’s geography teacher, the woman explained, a single man with no children. Toby had no family, no godparents.
Toby remembered. Mr. Hibma had been waiting at the hospital when Toby’d been transferred from the police station. Mr. Hibma had left him food from the taco place. Nachos. Toby rolled to the edge of the bed and lifted up the trash can. The carton was inside, the cheese containers. Toby didn’t remember eating anything, didn’t feel like he could’ve.
Toby shut off the TV. He was so thirsty. Mr. Hibma wanted him. Could that be true? Mr. Hibma didn’t bother with troubled kids. Since Toby had gone and tried to confess to him during lunch that day, Mr. Hibma had barely looked at him. Toby had woken up in an altered world. It only looked like the old world. Toby would have to change. He’d have to take the new world in stride. He had to shake the feeling that he was going to be punished, that he deserved justice. He was being treated as a victim. He was a type of victim; that’s what they all thought.
Mr. Hibma had been up late, switching between a show about temp workers and a long commercial for a video of girls revealing their breasts. He had been preparing to turn the TV off and face the noiseless night, flipping through the cycle of channels one last time, when there was a newsbreak. The pictures in the corner of the screen weren’t matching up with the hastily written script. Shelby Register’s little sister had been found. She’d been rescued, alive. Mr. Hibma had listened to a description of Neal Showers, who’d killed himself, and whose nephew was now in the custody of the Citrus County Sheriff’s Department. Mr. Hibma sat up and took a swallow of stale tea. Neal Showers. That was the name Toby had always forged on his detention forms. Mr. Hibma could see the careful cursive. It was Toby who was at the police station. Toby.
Mr. Hibma threw back a shot of bourbon, brushed his teeth, and tore down the empty roads that led to the county offices and the jail. This was the change. Mr. Hibma saw it. He didn’t have to love the kiss-asses. He had to love who he loved. He could be his own kind of teacher, one who took an interest in the Tobys of the world. Mr. Hibma didn’t have to give Toby all those detentions. He respected the boy. Mr. Hibma had been misguided in trying to take the drastic alteration of his life into his own hands. As usual, the world was supplying the change. As usual, Mr. Hibma was a character, not the author. And thank God. Mr. Hibma wasn’t up to being the author. He didn’t know how to save himself. Never was he less skilled, more doltish, than when he tried to figure and plot his own life.
When he arrived at the station, he drove around the building, deciding where to enter. There were media vans and he didn’t want to be near them. He found a side entrance that seemed meant for deliveries, then collected every bit of identification he could out of his glove box and wallet — documentation proving his residence and place of employment and the status of his automobile insurance, credit cards and a valid driver’s license. He had a social security card, a punch card for a smoothie shop.
Mr. Hibma went and knocked on the door until someone answered. He asked for the guy’s supervisor, saying he had information regarding Toby McNurse, and was taken to a small room with speckled tile on the floor where he waited for almost an hour. He decided, after much consideration, to leave the room, and he soon found the infirmary, where a nurse informed him that Toby had undergone his tests and was now resting. The nurse seemed a sympathetic person, so Mr. Hibma told her why he was there, that he wanted to claim Toby, that he was one of Toby’s teachers at school and that the boy was fond of him and that he was meant to help this kid and probably not meant for a damn thing else.
The nurse sat Mr. Hibma down and gave him some coffee and again Mr. Hibma waited for an hour. He felt like he was in trouble. His hair felt greasy. He was on the verge of tears. He realized that he was very tired and agitated and that when he finally got to talk to someone with pull he was going to come across as raving. He drank more coffee. He could sit for ten more minutes, he told himself, and then he would have to go explore another part of the building. Mr. Hibma wondered if he was on camera. He imagined that by now the police social workers had confirmed that Toby had no family. They were doing a background check on Mr. Hibma. There were lawyers back there. The chief. Mr. Hibma needed a bathroom. He needed to piss and splash water on his face. Mr. Hibma thought back to the only other time he’d been in a jail. In college he’d missed a court date for underage drinking and cops had come to his apartment at six in the morning and pounded on his door. They had sat the eighteen-year-old Mr. Hibma in the back of a long van and then proceeded to pick up every deadbeat dad in town. It was something they did once a month. For hours upon hours Mr. Hibma had watched lawyers dragged from offices, mechanics led out of garages, old leather-skinned black guys called up from fishing holes.
The door to Mr. Hibma’s little room swung open, causing him to spill coffee on his leg. A large, relaxed cop entered, not wearing a uniform but just a polo shirt with a badge embroidered on it, followed by Mrs. Conner. Mr. Hibma was dumbstruck. He did all he could, which was to sit up with a formal bearing and wait to be spoken to. Mrs. Conner smiled solemnly at Mr. Hibma, as if proud of him. The cop started talking. He was Mrs. Conner’s husband, Sergeant Conner. He’d been retired for years, but still had influence around the station. Mr. Hibma had pictured Mrs. Conner’s husband wearing a polo shirt and here he was, wearing a polo shirt. Toby was going to be released to Mr. Hibma on a trial basis, for thirty days. Thirty days was the minimum. If Mr. Hibma couldn’t make a thirty-day commitment, he should speak up now. Sergeant Conner went on, Mrs. Conner beaming at his side. Mrs. Conner considered Toby a problem child, Mr. Hibma gathered, and believed Mr. Hibma was doing a saintly deed taking him in. Mrs. Conner had put in a good word for Mr. Hibma. She and her husband were pushing this through. It was just a matter of time and signatures. Her husband explained that Toby would be moved to the hospital for a short while, then would return to county custody for a week or so, until the hullabaloo died down. After all that was over, he would be Mr. Hibma’s temporary charge. Mr. Hibma had never seen Mrs. Conner out of school. Everything about her seemed exaggerated. Her hair was a vibrant red. Her teeth were big and straight. Her blouse was of some rough, stiff material and her perfume shrunk the room.