“Mei, you should have come and found me first?—”
“There wasn’t time! Come on.”
Mei pulls me toward the far corner of the yard, where the fence is hidden by overgrown bushes that Jay keeps meaning to trim.
That’s when I see him.
At first, I think it’s just a pile of discarded clothes someone had thrown over the fence. But then the pile moves—a tremor that is distinctly human.
“Oh my God.”
I close the distance in three strides, dropping to my knees beside the huddled form. It’s a child, I realize. A boy, around nine years old, curled into himself so tightly, he looks half his actual size. He’s wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans, no jacket, no shoes. His dark hair is matted with dirt and sweat, and his skin has taken on an alarming grayish pallor in the weak light.
“Hey, sweetie. Hey, can you hear me?” I reach out slowly, telegraphing my movements the way Jay taught me. Frightened children are like frightened animals—they need to see you aren’t a threat.
The boy flinches when my hand touches his shoulder, curling tighter into himself.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now. My name is Chloe; this is Mei. We’re going to help you.” I’m already shrugging out of my cardigan, wrapping it around his thin shoulders. He’s freezing, his skin like ice under my fingers. How long has he been out here?
“Mei, run inside and get Jay. Tell him we need blankets and the first aid kit. Go.”
Mei nods and takes off running, her footsteps fading into the distance.
I turn my full attention back to the boy. “Can you tell me your name? Are you hurt?”
The boy lifts his head slightly. In the dim light, I can just make out his features—delicate bone structure, large brown eyes that seem almost black in the darkness, a mouth pressed into a thin line. He looks at me for a long moment, and I see an expression that makes my chest ache: uncertainty.
Not of me, specifically. But of the situation. The fear. The uncertainty of whether this new adult will hurt him or help him.
I know that look. I wore it myself, once upon a time.
“It’s okay if you can’t talk right now,” I say softly. “You don’t have to be scared. I promise I’m going to keep you safe.”
The boy just stares at me. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.
I frown. “You’re not scared? Or you don’t believe me?”
Another head shake, more emphatic this time.
I try a different approach. “Are you hurt? Does anything feel broken?”
Head shake.
“Are you lost?”
Hesitation. Then a tiny nod.
“Do you need help?”
A more confident nod.
Progress. Sort of. But why isn’t he speaking? I study him more carefully. He doesn’t seem physically unable to speak—his breathing is normal, no signs of injury to his throat or mouth. So, either he can’t speak, or he’s choosing not to.
An idea occurs to me. It’s a long shot, but I learned ASL years ago when one of the children at the orphanage was deaf. I still practice occasionally, though I’m rusty.
I raise my hands and sign slowly: “Can you understand this?”
The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. Then, with trembling hands, he lifts his own: “Yes.”
