Chapter 3 - The Boy Behind the Mask
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My official transition from mansion cleaner to the nineteenth nanny began at dawn the following morning.
The third floor of the estate was a sprawling, silent fortress of oak doors and velvet drapes. Noah’s bedroom was massive, filled with expensive, untouched toys, custom oak furniture, and dark wallpaper that made the room feel like a velvet cage.
When I opened the heavy door, Noah was hiding under his king-sized bed.
I didn't try to pull him out. I didn't try to talk to him about his feelings.
Instead, I sat down on the hardwood floor three feet from the edge of the bed frame, pulled a sketchbook and a box of colored crayons out of my canvas bag, and began to draw in complete silence.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
The soft rustle of the rug signaled his movement. A small, pale face emerged from beneath the dust ruffle, dark eyes watching me intently.
“What is that?” he croaked. It was the first coherent sentence he had spoken to anyone in weeks.
“It’s a dragon,” I said softly, without looking up from the paper. “He lives in a big dark house, but he doesn't like the noise inside.”
Noah crawled out fully, sitting on his knees. He looked at my side, where a thick medical bandage bound my bruised ribs beneath my sweater.
“I hit you,” he whispered.
“You did,” I agreed calmly, flipping to a fresh page and sliding a black crayon toward him. “It hurt a lot. But I know you didn't mean to hit me. You were trying to make everyone stay away.”
Noah’s tiny hand reached out and grasped the crayon. He didn't draw a dragon.
He pressed the black wax hard against the white paper, dragging it in jagged, violent strokes until the page tore.
May you like
In the center of the paper, he drew a tall figure with a long white coat and red eyes, standing beside a bed.
“The white man comes when the lights go out,” Noah whispered, his tiny body trembling. “He gives me the bitter juice.”
