I crossed the room and sat carefully in the chair beside the bed. “What’s troubling you?”
He stared at the laptop. “Nothing.”
“Ah. An old enemy.”
He let out a breath. “I was trying to write something.”
I kept my face relaxed. This was my chance to help him, but I didn’t want to spook him by being overly enthusiastic. Pre-teens scared easily. “One of your stories?”
“Maybe.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It isn’t.” He pushed the laptop away with more force than necessary. “Nothing comes out right. I had ideas before, but thenI opened the document, and it all looked stupid. The screen just looked back at me, judging me.”
“Screens tend to do that.”
He looked up. “They do?”
“Oh yes. Horrid little rectangles.”
That earned me a real smile.
I closed the laptop. “Perhaps this tool is too many things at once.”
His brows drew together. “What do you mean?”
“Your brain associates this machine with schoolwork, games, messages, research. It’s both distraction and expectation. Perhaps your mind doesn’t know whether it’s meant to create or perform.”
He considered that with unusual seriousness. “Maybe.”
“I have something in my car.”
“Something weird?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Cool.”
I left him and went outside through the side entrance. The afternoon light remained gray and weak, though I still took my parasol to be safe. From the rear compartment of the hearse, I retrieved a small pad of lined paper and a yellow pencil from one of the storage drawers.
I kept several of these cheap notepads on hand because one never knew when a child might need paper, and paper had fewer ways to betray a person than electronic devices.
I wanted to help CJ because I knew, more than most people, what it was like to be a prisoner in your own mind. To want to say or do something that felt extremely important to no avail. I hoped my idea would free him from the barriers in his head.
When I returned, CJ looked more alert.
I offered the paper and pencil. “Would you like to try the old-fashioned way?”
He frowned. “This is just paper.”
“Most wonderful things begin in the simplest of ways.”
He turned the pencil between his fingers. “What if it’s bad?”
“Then you’ll have written something bad.”
He scoffed. “That’s your encouragement?”
