“I’m right here.”
The caseworker turned.
“You’re right.”
Good.
The mother liked her a little more.
The boy said, “I don’t want to go with strangers.”
The caseworker said, “She is also currently a stranger.”
He looked at the mother.
Then at his brother.
“Not exactly.”
The younger boy brightened.
The older one immediately regretted saying it.
The caseworker sighed.
There was an emergency kinship protocol, but it required background checks, home inspection, identity documentation, and supervisory approval.
The mother called everyone.
Attorney.
Family doctor.
Building manager.
Her son’s father.
Her employer.
She handed over enough information to reconstruct her life.
Three hours later, an emergency temporary placement was approved for forty-eight hours pending review.
The older boy looked terrified when the caseworker told him.
The mother said quietly, “You can still say you would rather go to youth housing.”
He studied her.
“You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone in your life seems to have made decisions for you.”
He looked down.
“I don’t want to go there.”
“Okay.”
“But I’m not calling you Mom.”
The mother’s eyes filled.
“I would never ask.”
Her younger son said, “What can he call you?”
She closed her eyes.
“Please stop helping.”
The ride home was silent.
The older boy sat in the rear beside his younger brother.
He stared through the window at Manhattan.
The younger child lasted seven minutes.
“Do you like video games?”
The older boy shrugged.
“What games?”
Another shrug.
“Do you have a favorite food?”
“Food.”
The younger boy stared.
The older boy almost smiled.
“What?”
“That’s not a favorite.”
“It is when you’re hungry.”
Silence.
Then the younger boy looked down at his expensive shoes.
His expression changed.
The mother saw through the rearview mirror.
A child learning, perhaps for the first time, that the difference between having and not having was not abstract.
The younger boy unzipped his backpack.
He took out a wrapped pastry from school.
“I didn’t eat this.”
The older boy looked at it.
“You saving it?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you eat it?”
“I forgot.”
The older boy took it.
“Thanks.”
The younger boy nodded.
The mother looked away before tears blurred her vision.
Their apartment occupied the twelfth floor of a building near Riverside Drive.
Not a mansion.
Large by New York standards.
Three bedrooms.
Bright kitchen.
Floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room.
The older boy stopped inside the entryway.
His eyes moved over everything.
Not impressed.
Overwhelmed.
The mother deliberately did not give a tour.
“Bathroom is there.”
She pointed.
“Your room is at the end.”
“My room?”
“Guest room.”
He looked suspicious.
“Nobody uses it?”
“Sometimes my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
“My sister. Your aunt.”
The word created another invisible connection.