of someone who knew far more than they should and were keeping secrets, softened only by the plaintive--if not somewhat sad--upturning of lips that passed for a smile in the children's home.
"Hello, Christopher Robinson."
"Hello, Mickey. How are you feeling today?"
"No better or worse than yesterday, but a little sadder, I suppose."
"Sad? Why?"
The boy chewed his lower lip for a moment and shook his head.
"Well then. What are we going to do about this?" Christopher asked, plopping onto the bed next to Mickey.
"Christopher--don't," Mickey said in the all-too-serious tone children sometimes use.
"I could go get some medicine..."
"Christopher--"
"Or some more crackers..."
"I mean it, don't!"
"Or..."
"Christopher!"
And to this, Christopher's final response was to turn and assault the boy's midsection with swift, experienced fingers. Normally the boy's face would light up into a fit of laughter while he squirmed and protested too much. His giddy giggles would plaster a smile to Christopher's face, and in a minute it would end with both of them in higher spirits than when it had begun.
But Mickey did none of those things. His body remained still and stiff and his gaze fixed on Christopher without the slightest hint of amusement. If anything he looked more troubled than before, now frowning.
"What's wrong?"
Mickey kept his mouth closed stubbornly.
"Mickey, please, tell me what's wrong."
"You're going to leave."
"W-what? I have to go eventually, but I'll be back later at dinnertime. You have to eat something, after all..."
"No. That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
"I can't tell you now. I'm sorry!"
Usually Mickey was calm, quiet, even unemotional in a way that was unnerving in a child.