Chapter 6: The Psychologist's Office
Dr.
Susan Marsh had a waiting room with low shelves of books and a basket of small wooden animals near the window.
Noah went straight to the basket when we arrived, picked up a carved horse, and held it in both hands without sitting down.
I signed forms at the front desk.
The receptionist smiled at Noah.
He didn't look up.
Dr.
Marsh came out herself to meet us.
She was in her sixties, unhurried, with the kind of stillness that didn't feel performed.
"You must be Noah," she said.
Noah looked at her.
He didn't put the horse down.
"That's a good one," she said, nodding at it.
"You can bring it in if you like."
He followed her.
I sat in the waiting room for ninety minutes.
I read nothing.
I looked at the window and thought about the envelope Grace had given me, now in my car.
The documents inside it.
The words *welfare check* and *charges dropped* and *voluntary surrender.*
When Noah came back out, he still had the horse.
Dr.
Marsh appeared in the doorway behind him.
"Mr.
Calloway?
Could I have a few minutes?"
Noah sat in the waiting room chair nearest the door.
I followed Dr.
Marsh into her office.
She sat down.
She didn't open a file.
"He communicated with me," she said.
"Not verbally.
But clearly."
"How?"
"Drawing, primarily.
Some gesture.
He's precise.
Deliberate." She paused.
"He's also watching everything.
Every exit, every person who passes the window.
He's been doing that since he arrived."
"He checks the locks every night," I said.
"Every window."
She nodded slowly.
"Mr.
Calloway, I'm not going to give you a formal assessment in this conversation.
That takes time and it needs to be done properly.
But I want to ask you something."
"All right."
"When he heard the knock at the door — when he grabbed your wrist and said don't — did he seem surprised?
Or did he seem like he had been waiting for it?"
I thought about his face.
The way the color had left it.
The way his hand had found my wrist before I had even moved.
"Waiting," I said.
"He seemed like he had been waiting for it."
She looked at me for a moment.
"That's what I thought."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the fear isn't new.
It's been with him a long time." She folded her hands.
"I'd like to see him twice a week.
I'd like to build enough of a relationship that when the time comes — if a hearing is granted — I can speak to what I've observed with some authority."
"Grace Ellison said I'd need a court-approved psychologist."
"I'm on the list." She said it simply, without weight.
"Good," I said.
On the drive home, Noah sat in the back seat with the wooden horse in his lap.
I watched him in the rearview mirror.
"She was nice," I said.
He looked up at the mirror.
He held the horse up slightly, as if showing it to me.
"You can keep that," I said.
"She told me."
He looked at the horse again.
Something in his face shifted — not quite a smile, but close.
That night, after dinner, I was washing dishes when I heard a sound behind me.
I turned around.
Noah was standing in the kitchen doorway.
He had a piece of paper in his hand.
He walked to the table, set it down, and stepped back.
I dried my hands and went to look.
It was a drawing.
Two figures.
A tall one and a small one, standing side by side in front of a house.
The tall figure had its arm around the small one.
In the corner, in careful letters, he had written one word.
*Safe.*
I stood at the table for a long moment.
Then I sat down, because my legs weren't entirely reliable.
"Yes," I said, though he hadn't asked a question.
"Safe."
He watched me from the doorway.
Then he turned and went to his room.
I left the drawing on the table.
May you like
The next morning, Grace called.
"The judge granted the hearing," she said.
