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The staff talked about him right in front of him, like, “make sure you help Noah,” as if he was a chore chart and not a person.
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One afternoon during “free time,” I dropped onto the floor near his chair with my book and said, “If you’re going to guard the window, you have to share the view.”
We were in each other’s lives from that moment on.
He looked over, raised an eyebrow, and said, “You’re new.”
“More like returned,” I said. “Claire.”
He nodded once. “Noah.”
That was it. We were in each other’s lives from that moment on.
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Growing up there together meant we saw every version of each other.
“I get your hoodie.”
Angry versions. Quiet versions. Versions that didn’t bother hoping when a honte “nice couple” came to tour the facility because we knew they were looking for someone smaller, easier, less complicated.
Every time a kid left with a suitcase or a trash bag, we’d do our stupid little ritual.
“If you get adopted. I get your headphones.”