Chapter 9
Theo slept under my clinic desk the first night.
Not because there was nowhere else.
Because he refused every guest room.
Too big.
Too quiet.
Too unfamiliar.
He curled under the desk with a blanket and his grocery bag beside him.
The bag mattered.
Coins removed.
Cans gone.
Still he needed it near.
I sat on the floor outside the desk.
“You can sleep upstairs.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“You mad?”
“No.”
He looked suspicious.
People had taught him refusal created danger.
“I can stay here?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“If you want.”
He stared at me.
Then:
“You won’t make me work tomorrow?”
My throat tightened.
“What work?”
“Cans.”
“No.”
“How buy food?”
“You don’t.”
He frowned.
“How get food?”
“I provide it.”
“Why?”
The question almost broke me.
Because I’m your mother was too easy.
Too heavy.
So I said:
“Because children are supposed to be fed.”
He thought for a long time.
“Even bad ones?”
“Yes.”
“Even expensive ones?”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“Yes.”
He pulled the blanket higher.
After several minutes:
“Can Clara have food too?”
I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“Bodyguards?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody?”
“Yes.”
That seemed to settle something.
He fell asleep fifteen minutes later.
I stayed on the floor.
At two in the morning, Clara found me there.
“You have a house.”
“So does he.”
She understood.
Not yet.
A building is not home because blood says it is.
May you like
Theo had entered my clinic looking for treatment he thought cost twelve dollars.
I was not going to answer five years of deprivation by demanding instant belonging.
