Reggie shook his head.
“She said it’s unnatural.”
Dennis was confused.
“They must have told. My foster parents.”
“Told what?”
“There was this time... I drew pictures. You know.”
Dennis didn’t know.
“It was... two boys.”
“Oh.”
Dennis was vaguely aware there were boys at Brightwood who liked other boys. He never really thought about it. They left him alone, which was all that mattered. As long as they didn’t mess with him or the rabbit, he didn’t care.
“My foster dad was very angry. He made me pray. Then he sent me here.”
“Did Martha put you in the rug?”
“She tickled me, all over. She pressed her face against mine and told me I hated myself. She said that I think of boys because of what my mother did to me. But I don’t hate women. I miss my real mom.”
“I don’t.”
Dennis felt his bottom get cold on the bathroom floor.
“You need to give in,” he told Reggie. “The quicker you give in, the sooner she’ll let you leave.”
“How do you give in?”
“I don’t know. I’ve tried.”
The two boys sat against the cool wall. Eventually, the clouds blew away from the moon, and it was revealed, perfect in its entirety.
“We should go,” Dennis said. “If they catch us, they’ll put it in our notes. The more times you are bad, the more treatment she says you need. The longer the holding time, and the longer you have to stay here.”
He stood, and put out a hand for the older boy, lifting Reggie to his feet. They didn’t speak again for the longest time.
Dennis had stopped talking to Ralph. When the custodian passed in the hallway, Dennis walked by, his eyes straight ahead.
When Dennis dreamed, it was of sleet. The world was full of ice. He was a soft puppet, made of rags and tears. Martha held him, cajoled him, tormented him, and still Dennis could not give her what she wanted, even when he desired it himself. There was a small hard rock in him that saidno. Fight back.
So he fought back.
Martha called in Ike Tressler, and he pinned Dennis to the floor, so much it hurt. But not even the dragon breath of Ike moved him.
“You might be a failed case,” Martha said. “I have never had a failure.”
There had been boys at Axis who took years to cure, she remembered. That was okay. She had the boys until they were eighteen. She would not send a boy on to a foster or adoptive home until he was cured.
Dennis was led from the room, vomit down his shirt. One night he had to be carried, his clothes soaked with drool and sweat. The custodian found him later, tucked into his cot. When his caseworker visited, she talked briefly to Dennis, who refused to speak. She spoke to Martha, who said, “He is very disordered.”
Nights swirled past, in color. The whole world was dead.
One night, Ralph passed Dennis a note.
