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“He’s very good, your boy.”

Finnbarr’s words were clear but his head was turned, so Mary suspected she’d imagined it. The child had said naught but single words to her up until now, and wasn’t echolalic as far as she knew. She’d ask Cherry had anyone said those same words in front of Finn about the child. That would be it, that a stranger’d told the mother “He’s very good, your boy,” in just that same strange cadence and Finn’d committed it to memory. These children often collected overheard phrases to communicate with others, and they were notorious for speaking of themselves in the third person.

“You are, Finn, you’re very good indeed,” Mary responded, just in case the child was trying to engage her. The child turned and shone his bright eyes at hers. She saw the same speckled eyes of his mother. “YOUR boy. He’s VERY good.” The child said emphatically. “I haven’t a boy,” Mary blurted back just as sharply.

“That one,” said Finn, reaching toward her abdomen and furrowing his brow.

Mary fell back as if he’d pelted her with a stone. It was nonsense, but unnerving, none the less, after her mother’s rant just days before. The metallic taste rose up in Mary’s mouth again and she gritted her teeth against it.

Mary turned her attention to the knobs on her amplifier and kept them there, waiting for the boy to disappear under the pale blue sheet. He did not. He sat on the rickety chair with his legs twisted twice round the legs and trained his eyes on her.

The two of them stayed motionless for the rest of the session. Mary softened the focus of her eyes to take in the whole room and nothingness at the very same time. She counted each of her own inhalations and exhalations to keep herself from thinking any thought, especially thoughts of the boy saying “your boy….” “your boy……” “He’s very good, your boy.” “He’s very good.”