Page 121
His gaze drops, and I regret the comparison the second I make it, because there’s a decent chance he has slept on a floor for reasons I don’t want to know about yet.
I soften my tone. “Will it work for today?”
Kamden nods. “Yeah.”
“Good.”
I hand him the pen.
He takes it, but instead of opening the pad right away, he turns the pen slowly between his fingers. He glances at his cuffed hand, biting his lip, then looks back at me, conflicted.
There is clearly a problem, but I guess we’re about to play another round of Kamden would rather suffer quietly than risk inconveniencing somebody.
When his thumbnail starts scraping anxiously over the side of the pen, I ask, “Something wrong?”
“No.”
“Kamden.”
“It’s fine.” He gives me a tiny, miserable frown.
I lean closer to him. “You asked me what being good meant before.” He nods minutely, his chin barely dipping. “One of the things I told you was telling me what you need. That applies right now.”
“I don’t need anything,” he whispers.
“Sweetheart, is there something wrong with the cuff? It didn’t get too tight somehow?”
My attention catches on the pen in his left hand as he struggles to answer, held loosely between two fingers, as if he isn’t sure what to do with it.
I almost laugh at myself.
“Are you right-handed?”
Kamden nods, then rushes to clarify. “I know I still have to be cuffed.” The words come fast, anxious. “I’m not asking you to take it off. I know you said I’m not ready for that, and I know I tried to run before, so I understand. I just—” He glances down at his left wrist. “The other one doesn’t hurt anymore.”
I stay quiet.
That seems to make him more nervous. He shifts on the mattress, sheets rustling under him.
“I mean, it barely hurts. Just if I press really hard on it, and I don’t have to do that, so if you could maybe…” He takes a deep breath just before his eyes meet mine. “Could you switch it? Please? I can’t draw with my left hand.”
The question is so tentative that, for a moment, I’m more interested in the way he asked than the request itself.
No demand.
No attempt to bargain his way out of the restraint.
He isn’t even asking for more freedom.
He identified a problem, accepted the boundary I’d already set, and asked me to adjust the situation so he could do something he wanted within that boundary.
Exactly what I asked him to do.
“That,” I say slowly, “was very good.”
His entire face flushes, dark red from his throat to the tips of his ears. He ducks his head and studies his knees through the blanket like they’re suddenly fascinating.
“You don’t have to say it like that,” he mumbles.
