Relief floods through me. At least we have a way to communicate.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” I sign.
“No. Just cold.”
“What’s your name?”
The boy’s hands still. His lips press together, and he looks away, shaking his head firmly.
“It’s okay,” I sign. “You don’t have to tell me yet. Let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”
I stand carefully and hold out my hands. The boy stares at them for a long moment before finally reaching up. His hands are tiny and cold in mine, and when I help him to his feet, I realize just how light he is. Too light for a child his age.
When did he last eat?
I crouch down and turn my back to him. “Climb on. I’m going to carry you inside, okay?”
For a moment, nothing happens. Then I feel thin arms wrap around my neck and legs hook around my waist. I stand carefully, adjusting his weight, and start walking back toward the orphanage.
He’s shivering against my back, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I rub his arm gently as I walk, murmuring soft reassurances. “Almost there. You’re doing so good. Just a little further.”
We’re halfway across the yard when I feel him shift. His head comes to rest against my shoulder, his breath warm against my ear despite the cold.
And then he whispers—so quietly I almost miss it: “The monster is coming for me.”
I stop walking.
My heart stutters in my chest, and for a moment, I’m nine years old again, huddled in a closet, listening to heavy footsteps in the hallway outside. Waiting for the door to open. Waiting for the monster to find me.
I force the memory away and turn my head slightly. “What monster, sweetie?”
But the boy has gone completely still against my back, his breathing shallow and fast. When I try to look at his face, he buries it in my shoulder.
So, he can speak. He just chooses not to. The realization settles over me like a heavy blanket—this child has been through terrible events, experiences that make silence feel safer than words.
I understand that better than most.
I swallow hard and continue walking. The back door stands open now, light spilling out into the darkness. I can see Jay’s silhouette in the doorway, arms full of blankets.
As I carry the boy toward safety, toward warmth and light, one thought keeps circling through my mind: What if he’s right? What if whoever hurt him really is coming after him? It will lead them right to the orphanage when they find him.
And somewhere in the back of my consciousness, that strange text message nags at me:Thank you.Sent at the exact moment I’d been walking these halls. Sent just before I’d found this terrified child.
Coincidence?
Probably.
Inside, the orphanage wraps around us like a warm embrace. Jay has turned on all the lights in the common room and built up the fire in the old fireplace that usually only gets used on special occasions. The heat hits my face as I step inside, and I feel the boy relax slightly against my back.
“Set him down here.” Jay has already spread blankets across the worn sofa. His gray hair stands up in all directions, and he’s wearing the ridiculous flannel robe that the kids and I bought him last Christmas. But his gaze is sharp and alert, taking in every detail of our unexpected guest.
I gently lower the boy onto the sofa and immediately wrap him in layers of blankets until only his face peeks out. He looks impossibly fragile, buried under all that fabric, his gaze darting between Jay and me with wary uncertainty.
Jay kneels beside the sofa with practiced ease. He’s been taking in strays—both human and animal—for over twenty years. He knows how to make himself non-threatening.
“Hey there, buddy. I’m Jay. This is my orphanage—well, technically I just run it, but we won’t get into the boring details.” He smiles warmly. “Chloe here tells me you’ve had a rough night. How about we get you warmed up and fed? When’s the last time you ate?”
The boy looks at me uncertainly.
