Page 9 of Hush, Little Baby

He then presses his face briefly into his stuffed animal’s fur before setting it carefully beside him, as if he doesn’t want to squish it.

His attention leaves the toy once he’s satisfied with its placement. He reaches for the book on the table, flipping through several pages until finally stopping on what appears to be the outline of a cat with two kittens. Satisfied with his choice, he nods to himself.

Fuck, he’s perfect. If Constantine comes back with news of the boy already having a caregiver, I don’t think I’ll be able to respect that.

He has to be mine.

I watch the boy select a crayon with careful seriousness, holding it in his whole fist instead of between his fingers.

The tip of his tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth as he colors. He studies the page like he’s trying very hard to do it right.

For a few unguarded moments, I imagine how he’d look in a different setting—maybe even the private cocoon of a high-rise bedroom, sheets pulled up to his chin and stuffed animals as sentries at his flanks. He’d hold my hand the same way he holds that crayon—desperately, with a strength that belies his size. He’d look up at me, eyes wide and slightly wary, and I would tell him that everything is fine, that no one can reach him here, that he is safe. I picture the evenings full of storybooks, warm milk, and maybe a bath with too many bubbles. I could be the first person to give him that—complete safety, stripped of any expectation but to exist and be small and sweet. The thought of it makes my throat constrict.

But he looks tired. Not the cartoon version of sleepy—no rubbing of eyes, no pouting—but the kind of tired that sits on your bones and will not leave. His shoulders slope downward as if something invisible is pressing them down. He pauses every few lines, the tip of the crayon hovering midair, as if searching for permission to continue. Once, his head tips forward too far, chin nearly brushing his chest, before he jerks upright again, as if startled by his own abandon. He keeps going, stubborn, as if the act of coloring is a duty imposed on him by some unseen authority. Maybe it is. The thought makes me want to step in, right this second, and ask him what he needs.

It shouldn’t be like this. He shouldn’t be here alone, in a club filled with people whose only interest is to consume and discard anything with a pulse. There’s something predatory about the whole environment—the way the members lounge around, searching, measuring, waiting for the next new body to pass through so they can tear it down to the bones. It makes me sick how outmatched he is compared to the average guest. Anyone could walk in there and destroy all that sweetness in the span of a night. The outrage is enough to make my hands shake. I curl them into fists, pressing hard against my knees until the feeling recedes.

Time blurs, then snaps back into focus as Constantine returns. He drops into the chair beside me, less elegant than usual. His face is a little red, which means he’s either flustered or excited, or possibly both. He leans in, voice pitched so only I can hear.

“Well,” he says, “you’re going to like this.”

I don’t bother to look at him. “Tell me.”

“He’s single.”

My fingers twitch. I force myself to stay seated, though every cell in my body wants to get up, walk straight into that room, and take him by the hand.

“I won’t have to deal with a partner,” I say. “Good.”

“There’s more.” Constantine leans forward, conspiratorial. “He’s never played with anyone here. Not once.”

“Never?” The word is a little too loud. I catch myself, lower my voice. “Are you sure?”

“Lana at the desk says he comes in, says hello, goes directly to the nursery—doesn’t touch any of the other rooms—and stays there the entire night. When it’s over, he leaves. Doesn’t linger, doesn’t socialize. Nothing.”

I study the boy’s hands as he replaces blue with yellow, then back to blue, then pink.

“He doesn’t talk to anyone?” I ask.

“Not that she’s seen,” Constantine says. “I asked for his name, but all I got was ‘Charlie’. She wouldn’t give up a last name. Or any other info.”

Charlie.

The sound of it feels perfect in my mouth, like a taste I’ve waited a lifetime to recall. I whisper it again, quietly, savoring the syllables. Charlie. There’s a softness to it, all the edges sanded down. It fits him.

Inside the room, Charlie pauses with the crayon midair, as if even that small effort has drained him. He flexes his fingers, then massages his wrist with his other hand. The gesture is automatic and sad, the kind of movement you learn after years of ignoring discomfort because you’re sure no one else will notice or care. I want to go in there, kneel at his side, and offer my hands to cradle his, to tell him he never has to hurt alone again.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Instead, I study every detail. The way he tucks his feet under him, the line of his neck as it bends, and the small furrow between his brows that appears when he’s concentrating. He isn’t conventionally handsome, but he’s beautiful in a way that is both private and holy, as if his entire existence is a secret meant for only one person.

Me.

I have a vision, sudden and intense, of him kneeling at my feet, looking up with those impossibly sad eyes, waiting for orders. I could make it so easy for him. I could remove every decision, every uncertainty, and replace it with my own certainty.

I shift in my seat, the growing hardness in my pants making the chair uncomfortable. I cross my leg over my knee, masking the movement. Constantine is watching, amused, but he won’t tease me about it; he knows better.

I say, “He’s in pain.”