of Children and Families. They’re doing the best they can, with the incredibly stretched and limited resources they have. They wouldn’t have left him here if they had any other choice, or if they didn’t trust me.
I remind myself that I have training, that I have references, that I can do this. I tell myself that I may be a stranger to this little boy, but I’m kind and I wish him nothing but good. I take a deep breath and begin.
“Hey, Dylan, I know this must seem strange, but I’m sure things will feel normal soon.” My tone is friendly, but the words still sound stilted. “How about a snack? Do you like grapes?”
He looks up then, if only a little, his bangs sliding into his eyes, as he gives his head an infinitesimal shake. No grapes, then.
“Okay. How about an apple? Or a banana?” A pause as he considers, still not making eye contact, everything about his posture wary and defensive—shoulders hunched, head lowered, as if he is trying to make himself as small as he can. Invisible, even. Then he gives a tiny nod, and I nearly sag with relief.
“Great.”
I spend an inordinate amount of time slicing an apple and banana into appealing, evenly sized pieces. All the while, I chat away, or try to, telling Dylan about Nick and Josh coming home soon, and how I can show him his bedroom, and how we have some games and puzzles he might like. I can dig some out of the attic, and I will definitely be going on Amazon tonight and buying some suitable toys and books.
Throughout all of this, Dylan doesn’t say a single word, and I still haven’t actually seen his face. His gaze has remained firmly fixed on the floor, his hair hiding his expression.
I bring the bowl of fruit to the table and tell him cheerfully to hop up on a chair. He comes, slowly, carefully, sitting gingerly on the edge of the chair as if he doesn’t trust it to hold him.
I stand back, feeling a weirdly euphoric sense of success—he is eating healthy food in my house!—and then I hear the front door open.
“Hello?” Nick calls, and he has a cheerful teacher’s voice, a little too loud, like he’s just walked on stage in a sitcom.
“We’re back here, in the kitchen.” I mimic that slightly manic tone, even though I don’t mean to. “Come and meet Dylan.”
Nick comes into the kitchen, Josh sloping in behind him, looking unenthused and a bit suspicious, his backpack half-falling off one shoulder.
“Hey, guys, this is Dylan,” I practically chirp. “And Dylan, this is my husband Nick, and my son Josh. He’s a bit bigger than you. Say hi, guys.” I really need to stop sounding like a demented playgroup leader.
“Hey, Dylan,” Nick says with an easy smile, sounding more relaxed than I do now. “Great to meet you, buddy.”
When Nick puts on the charm, he dazzles. It was what drew me to him all those years ago back at Cornell—that effortless, easy way of talking to people, so different from my own shy, stilted attempts at the time—but even so, Dylan doesn’t even look at him, and I can tell Nick is a little thrown, although he tries not to show it.
“Josh,” I prompt with an expectant look, and he lifts one hand in a wave.
“Hey.”
And then we all stand there, smiling like loons, having no idea what to do next.
Dylan picks up a slice of apple and nibbles it.
“How was practice, Josh?” I ask, striving for normalcy.
He shrugs. “It was okay. I finished a 10k in forty-four minutes.”
“That’s awesome.”
He slides towards the doorway, tilting his head towards the stairs as he mouths “Can I go?”
I nod, grateful that he showed that much consideration. Josh is a nice kid, really; it’s just he’s in that grunting, monosyllabic teenaged-boy stage, or so my friends with older sons tell me. One of my best friends, Julie, who lives down the street and has two sons in their twenties, told me, with a cackle, that it only takes about ten years to grow out of.
“So, Dylan.” Nick comes forward with a friendly smile that Dylan doesn’t see because his head is still bowed over his bowl. “Do you like baseball? Or soccer? We could toss a ball in the backyard, if you like.” Nick places a friendly hand on his shoulder, his smile still wide and easy.
What happens next shocks us both—Dylan goes rigid, his head jerking up,