She paid her taxes, renewed her license, and tried to avoid unnecessary complications.
But eight months earlier, her sixteen-year-old son, Micah, had come home from school shaking.
His backpack strap was torn.
His notebook was bent.
And he had a red mark on his wrist.
At first, he told her nothing had happened.
Then she noticed that he had stopped taking the bus.
He began asking her for rides to school, even when doing so made her late opening the salon.
One evening, she found him sitting in his bedroom with his shoes still on.
She asked what was wrong.
Micah stared at the floor.
"Police stopped me."
Tessa sat beside him.
"Where?"
"At the bus shelter."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Did they say?"
He shook his head.
"They said somebody was messing with the ticket machine."
"Was that you?"
"No."
Tessa waited.
Micah swallowed.
"They asked what was in my bag. I told them my school stuff."
"And then?"
"One grabbed it."
Tessa felt her chest tighten.
"Did he hurt you?"
Micah looked toward the window.
"He pulled me by the strap. I almost fell."
She noticed his wrist.
"Did he grab your arm too?"
Micah nodded.
For a moment, Tessa could not speak.
Then she asked him to tell her everything from the beginning.
He explained that he had been waiting for the 4:15 bus after an afternoon music rehearsal.
Someone had reported a person damaging the electronic ticket machine.
Two officers arrived.
One officer approached Micah and demanded identification.
Micah showed his school card.
The officer asked whether he had been touching the machine.
He said no.
The officer then ordered him to sit on the shelter bench while they checked his backpack.
Micah asked why.
The older officer grabbed the backpack strap and pulled it from his shoulder.