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“No!”

“The germs, I mean, not the shots.”

It’s still no.

Dr. Clay says I’m really brave but I’m not, I used my brave all up doing Plan B. I scream and scream. Ma holds me on her lap while he sticks his needles in over and over and they do hurt because he took the patch off, I cry for it and in the end Ma puts it back on me.

“All done for now, I promise.” Dr. Clay puts the needles in a box on the wall called Sharps. He has a lollipop for me in his pocket, an orange, but I’m too full. He says I can keep it for another time.

“. . . like a newborn in many ways, despite his remarkably accelerated literacy and numeracy,” he’s saying to Ma. I’m listening hard because it’s me that’s the he. “As well as immune issues, there are likely to be challenges in the areas of, let’s see, social adjustment, obviously, sensory modulation—filtering and sorting all the stimuli barraging him—plus difficulties with spatial perception . . .”

Ma asks, “Is that why he keeps banging into things?”

“Exactly. He’s been so familiar with his confined environment that he hasn’t needed to learn to gauge distance.”

Ma’s got her head in her hands. “I thought he was OK. More or less.”

Am I not OK?

“Another way to look at this—”

But he stops because there’s a knock, when he opens it’s Noreen with another tray.

I do a burp, my tummy’s still crammed from breakfast.

“Ideally a mental health OT with qualifications in play and art therapy,” Dr. Clay is saying, “but at our meeting this morning it was agreed that the immediate priority is to help him feel safe. Both of you, rather. It’s a matter of slowly, slowly enlarging the circle of trust.” His hands are in the air moving wider. “As I was lucky enough to be the admitting psychiatrist on duty last night—”

“Lucky?” she says.

“Poor word choice.” He does a sort of grin. “I’m going to be working with you both for the moment—”

What working? I didn’t know kids had to work.

“—with input of course from my colleagues in child and adolescent psychiatry, our neurologist, our psychotherapists, we’re going to bring in a nutritionist, a physio—”

Another knock. It’s Noreen again with a police, a he but not the yellow-hair one from last night.

That’s three persons in the room now and two of us, that equals five, it’s nearly full of arms and legs and chests. They’re all saying till I hurt. “Stop all saying at the same time.” I say it only on mute. I squish my fingers in my ears.

“You want a surprise?”

It was me Ma was saying, I didn’t know. Noreen’s gone and the police too. I shake my head.

Dr. Clay says, “I’m not sure this is the most advisable—”

“Jack, it’s the best news,” Ma butts in. She holds up pictures. I see who it is without even going close, it’s Old Nick. The same face as when I peeked at him in Bed in the night that time, but he has a sign around his neck and he’s against numbers like we marked my tall on birthdays, he’s nearly at the six but not quite. There’s a picture where he’s looking sideways and another where he’s looking at me.

“In the middle of the night the police caught him and put him in jail, and that’s where he’ll stay,” says Ma.

I wonder is the brown truck in jail too.

“Does looking at them trigger any of the symptoms we were talking about?” Dr. Clay is asking her.

She rolls her eyes. “After seven years of the real deal, you think I’m going to crumble at a photo?”

“What about you, Jack, how does it feel?”

I don’t know the answer.

“I’m going to ask a question,” says Dr. Clay, “but you don’t have to answer it unless you want to. OK?”

I look at him then back at the pictures. Old Nick’s stuck in the numbers and he can’t get out.

“Did this man ever do anything you didn’t like?”

I nod.

“Can you tell me what he did?”

“He cutted off the power so the vegetables went slimy.”

“Right. Did he ever hurt you?”

Ma says, “Don’t—”

Dr. Clay puts his hand up. “Nobody’s doubting your word,” he tells her. “But think of all the nights you were asleep. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask Jack himself, now, would I?”

Ma lets