Genkins with a hard G, as in “Guy,” not a soft G as in “Giant.” The guy’s name does not sound like “Jenkins.”

9:17 P.M., Friday, June 12, 2015
Honolulu, HI

It was night in Honolulu, and all children at Child Protective Services were supposed to be indoors. But children are clever when they need to be, and they can slip or squeeze through openings an adult might not even notice. Every fortress, every jail, and every home had weaknesses. Budget cuts insured that the CPS facility had extra weaknesses they couldn’t afford to fix, and there were kids willing to exploit these weaknesses.

Nine year old Paula Akron shivered despite the nighttime warmth of Hawaii in June. The sun was already set and there was the barest sliver of moonlight. It was even darker for the little girl because she was hiding in shadows, wondering how she and Paul were to find each other while making sure they weren’t seen. She was dressed in her black slacks and a black T-shirt, and she had her brown hair and tanned face wrapped in a black scarf.

Suddenly she started at a noise to her right. As she heard it again she recognized the hooting of an owl. Owls were not unknown in Hawaii, even here in the city. She frowned as she heard “who who! who who!” yet again.

“None of your business who, you damned owl!” the little girl hissed into the night.

The next sound she heard was one she knew well: Paul Macon’s laughter. The nine year old boy, dressed in black with his T-shirt pulled up over his face and the brim of his cap pulled low, emerged from the shadows not sixteen feet (five metres) from her.

“I thought I saw something move,” he told her as they met, “but I wasn’t sure it was you.”

A moment of whispered discussion and they settled on the banyan tree across the street as a safer trysting spot. The tree was further from the street than the building they had just slipped free of, and its multiple stems offered better concealment. Endless playtime hours pretending to be ninja and playing hide and seek gave them the skills to access this tree without being seen. After making their way towards the center, Paula gave her boyfriend a tight hug.

“Ow, ow!” the boy muttered; Paula let go and stepped back.

“Sorry,” Paul told her. “I’m kind of banged up and sore.”

“What happened?” the girl asked.

“I’m supposed to say that I fell down at recess,” he sneered.

Paula thought about that for a second before asking, “So what really happened?”

The boy hesitated, and then he told her. Told her about how Madsen had spanked him, and slapped his face, and how, when Paul had told another aide, he had been called a liar, and then how Madsen had given him a few more blows for telling on him.

“That’s horrible!” the little girl exclaimed.

“Shh,” the other child cautioned. “At least he doesn’t touch on me, like Genkins does to you.”

“It’s just as bad!” she replied, remembering to keep her voice down this time.

“The worst part,” Paul told her, “is there’s no way to fight back. I mean, a boy is supposed to be able to fight and take care of himself. But I can’t fight a grown-up man. And I can’t even tell on him. The grown-ups here won’t believe me, and Mommy and Dad are in p ... prison.”

Paul Macon had not referred to his mother as “Mommy” in two years. He was softly crying now.

Paula held her boyfriend in her arms, gently, so as not to hurt his bruises. She wished there was something she could do for him, something to make him feel good.

Oh, of course.

REDACTED

And to tell you the truth, it bothers me to redact it. It’s sweet.

“That was amazing!” Paul gushed. “Thank you thank you thank you! And a few more thank you’s.”