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So I practice every night until the words behave.

Other than that, I’ve never considered myself particularly different. I prefer silence to screaming, books to playgrounds, and thinking to talking.

None of that seems unusual to me.

Apparently, everyone else disagrees.

I’m about to answer Dr. Nudo when something outside the window steals my attention.

And suddenly, everything changes.

The office disappears. So do the pink walls and the flamingos. Even the dreadful Christmas music playing in the background fades away.

There is only him.

A thin boy with dark hair stands across the street, digging through trash bags. He doesn’t look like someone making a mess. He looks like someone searching for treasure.

I follow his movements with my eyes.

What could possibly be important enough to make someone search through dirty trash?

People walk past him carrying shopping bags tied with red and green ribbons. Families laugh beneath sparkling Christmas lights. Couples smile at one another, and children point excitedly at decorated storefronts.

Not one person stops.

Nobody asks if he’s all right.

Nobody even looks at him.

It’s as if he doesn’t exist.

A strange sensation blooms in my chest.

It’s sharp, unfamiliar, and deeply uncomfortable.

I don’t know what to call it.

Broken bones hurt. Scraped knees hurt. Paper cuts hurt.

This is different.

It hurts somewhere I can’t reach.

Why?

I keep watching him, hoping that if I look long enough, I’ll understand what’s happening inside me.

Instead, the feeling grows.

He looks hungry and cold.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m standing.

I leave the ugly pink sofa behind and wander toward the window, pressing my gloved hand against the cold glass. The chill seeps through the fabric.

Without thinking, I lift one finger and draw a jellyfish in the fog. A small, round bell with long, drifting tentacles stretching across the window as though floating through an invisible ocean.

Free.