Aaron listened, wide eyed and horrified at Amy's story. The shock of real life was like a slap to the face, and he could only sit there like a deer in headlights as Amy spoke of what was done to her, and how people treated Jackson because of it. It was sick. Those people were sick, and the very idea of it made him feel sick. Aaron put down his food. He wasn't in the mood for it. 

Aaron watched as Jackson, bless his little heart, hugged his mother. He was grateful that at least someone was able to comfort her after she poured her heart out to them, that sort of thing wasn't really his specialty. Still, he wanted to do something, say something, anything that could help. He knew, and he suspected that the rest of the group also knew, that what people really needed in positions like this was a friend. 

[b][color=fdc68a]“Amy...”[/color][/b] Aaron said steadily, folding his hands together on the table. [b][color=fdc68a]“...if you ever need anything, someone to talk to, babysitter, a ride, or just someone to hang out with, give me a call.”[/color][/b] In one smooth motion, Aaron pulled a pen and paper out of his back pack and wrote down his cell number, giving it to Amy. [b][color=fdc68a]“Hell, that goes for the rest of you, too.” [/color][/b]Quickly, he scribbled his number for each member of the group and handed them out, hoping that no one would take it the wrong way.