The worksheet slides through. Nine times four. Nine times seven. Nine times six. The same problems, the same wild guesses. But the eraser damage is worse than before. She's been working at them.
My chest does something complicated.
"Hold your hands up." I touch the cold steel of the trade slot. "Flat against the slot."
Ten small fingers press into the gap. The nails bitten down, the skin cold-looking in the corridor light. The ink mark on her left thumb, dark blue, fading, is still there.
"Number them left to right." My voice drops to a whisper. "One through ten."
Her lips move. Counting silently, the fingers tracking.
"Done."
"Fold your fourth finger."
The fourth finger drops. She holds the rest rigid with a six-year-old's fierce concentration.
"How many fingers to the left of the folded finger?"
"Three."
"To the right?"
A count. "Six."
"Put them together."
The pause has weight. She's assembling something she's never assembled before.
"Thirty-six," she breathes.
"Nine times four."
The hands vanish. The sneakers erupt in a rapid, controlled dance. A six-year-old trying to scream with her feet because her voice has to stay quiet. Then the hands reappear, spread flat.
"Nine times seven."
She counts to seven. The seventh finger folds. She reads it carefully, left to right.
"Six on the left. Three on the right."
"Sixty-three."
A long pause.
"IT'S A CODE," she stage whispers. Barely managed. "The left side is always the tens and the right side is always the ones. The dinosaur can read his own hands …"
"It's a pattern."
She does four more, each one faster. The hands appear, fold, read. The answer launches out in that barely-contained whisper.
When she pulls her hands back the last time, she's quiet for a moment.
"I'm going to show everyone tomorrow," she announces.
A cold finger touches my sternum. "You might want to keep this between us for now."
"Why?"
