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anything they overheard from their protectees. Naturally they heard a million conversations when they were driving his family around or flying with his father, but they were only supposed to respond if the protectee initiated the conversation. But even then, he didn’t think they would ever actually tell him what they thought if it was negative.
    When he’d first started college, some of the other kids thought the agents would narc on them for underage drinking, but the Secret Service genuinely didn’t care about that. It had taken a while before his dorm mates had realized the agents weren’t there to tell Rafa what to do, or to be his parents. They only cared about keeping him safe. Stuart had helped Rafa haul Ashleigh up three flights before Christmas break when she’d had one—or five—too many spiked eggnogs, and had been so nice about it.
    Rafa tried to focus on his notes, but his mind wandered. He wondered how Stuart and Joanna liked the Livingstons. He wished he could at least text them to say thanks for everything they’d done to take care of him, but of course he didn’t have their numbers. Not that anyone would try to kidnap him of all the presidential children, and he knew the agents were just doing their jobs. It didn’t mean they liked him. They weren’t friends .
    He pulled out his phone, making sure his panic button that sent an alarm to his detail and Secret Service headquarters was still safely tucked in his pocket. He’d never had to use the little black rectangle yet, but his parents had drilled into him the importance of never leaving home without it. Rafa quickly typed out a message to Ashleigh, hoping he’d get a comforting response before his speech. But the message remained stubbornly delivered and not read.
    Then they were arriving, and he had to put on his best smile and shake hands as the foundation director, Marissa, met him by the Suburban and shepherded him to the makeshift stage set up in the corner of the new park. Marissa was a tiny redhead with a bob cut and black rectangular glasses. She was barely thirty, but ran his mother’s foundation and handled her demands, so Rafa reflected that Marissa must be a marvel of both effectiveness and patience.
    The grass was still seeding in cordoned-off areas, and young trees dotted the space. A jungle gym gleamed by swing sets and a teeter-totter. He smiled and thought of a humid August day years ago when he and Matthew had tried to break the world record and failed miserably, giving up after only an hour that had felt like ten.
    When he went up to make his little speech, the gathered community applauded like they were genuinely excited to have him there, which was sweet. Of course he’d done absolutely nothing to assist with funding for the park or building it, but he smiled and waved as he took the microphone. Oh God, I’m so bad at this. Why isn’t Chris here? Why does he have to live in New York? Why couldn’t Mom do this damn speech herself? Why is this my life?
    As the people waited, he blinked against the glare of the morning sun, and sweat dripped down his spine. He spotted Shane at the edge of the crowd, looking every inch the stereotypical Secret Service agent with his dark suit, ear piece, and sunglasses. Alan was likely positioned somewhere behind Rafa.
    He cleared his throat, and the mic buzzed with static. “Hello. I’m Rafael Castillo, and it’s my honor to be here today to celebrate the opening of this beautiful park.” His note cards were in his pocket, and he realized he should have taken them out before he started talking. Heart pounding, he smiled awkwardly as he reached for them. “Um, I…” He fumbled the cards, spilling them at his feet.
    Shoot me now. Well, not literally.
    He scooped them up as a murmur went through the couple hundred people gathered. “Um, sorry. As I was saying…” He gripped the cards, which of course were now out of order. His eyes scanned the words, but nothing penetrated the