Page 8 of Hush, Little Baby

He doesn’t look toward the window, and most importantly, doesn’t look for anyone.

Instead, his attention drifts to the television for a second and then away again, like it doesn’t quite hold him anymore.

He pushes himself up, wobbling just a bit as he shifts to sit cross-legged on the bean bag. The blanket pools around his lap, and he frowns down at it like it’s mildly inconvenient.

He stretches his legs a little where he sits, another yawn leaving him.

He leans forward after a moment, reaching for something just out of view, and when he settles back again, he has a soft block in his hands. His lips tilt up faintly as he moves it between his palms, seemingly perfectly content with such a mundane toy.

“I’d bet his little age is pretty young,” Constantine states from beside me.

I don’t answer him immediately; my focus is on the boy.

“That,” I finally say quietly, “is not something you can fake.”

Constantine glances sideways at me. “Regression that deep?”

“Yeah.”

The boy presses the block to his cheek for a moment, eyes half-lidded with sleepy contentment, then carefully sets it beside him and reaches for something else on the mat. His movements are slow and a little clumsy, just how they should be.

The boy reaches for a second toy and pulls it into his lap before folding forward over it.

Constantine watches him for another moment before leaning back in his chair.

“So,” he says carefully, “tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I am thinking,” I reply, still watching the boy’s hands as they trace the edge of the toy in slow circles, “that I have never seen someone regress like this in public without a caregiver present.”

“Neither have I.”

Which means something.

Either he trusts this place completely… or he has nowhere else.

Constantine shifts beside me. “You’re already making conclusions.”

“I am making observations.”

He snorts quietly. “Fine. Observation, then. What do you observe?”

I watch as the boy drags the blanket back over his lap without really looking at it, instinctive and absentminded.

“I observe someone who is not performing.”

“And?” he prompts.

“And I observe someone who is alone.”

The word settles heavier than I intend it to.

Constantine exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That one’s hard to miss. Want me to go ask the girl up front about him? Since they’re supposedly friends?”

“Yes, please.”

He slaps my shoulder as he gets up. “I’ll be back. Don’t do shit while I’m gone.”

I grunt in response, too preoccupied by the boy crawling across the room with a coloring book and the pink cat he’d been napping with. When he reaches a bright yellow low table, he stops, sits back on his haunches, and arranges the coloring book on the table.