My 6-year-old nephew dragged his broken leg across seven blocks with his starving little sister clinging to his shirt, w

Healing was not a straight line, a fact Peter learned the hard way in late January. His phone rang while he was at work; it was the principal at Drew’s elementary school.

"Mr. Hayes, you need to come in. Drew was involved in an altercation."

Peter rushed to the school, his heart hammering against his ribs. He found Drew sitting outside the principal's office, his knees pulled to his chest, trembling violently.

In the office, the principal explained that during recess, a group of older boys had been playing a prank. They had shoved Drew into an outdoor equipment closet and held the door shut from the outside. It only lasted ten seconds, but the darkness and the locked door were all it took. Drew had exploded in absolute terror, punching one of the boys in the face the second the door opened.

"He's not a violent kid," Peter defended fiercely. "He had a severe PTSD trigger. They locked him in a dark room. You know his file."

The principal softened. "I know, Mr. Hayes. We are addressing the other boys. But Drew is highly distressed."

Peter walked out to the hallway and crouched down in front of his nephew. "Drew?"

The boy looked up, tears streaming down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I was bad. Please don't lock me away."

"Oh, buddy," Peter said, his voice cracking as he pulled the boy into a tight hug right there in the hallway. "You are not bad. You are safe. We're going home right now, okay? I am never, ever going to lock you away."