Every morning as I walk to work, I pass the same quiet park bench just outside the old community library. It’s around 7:30 am, and the boy is always there.
The bench is worn, like it’s been through many seasons. The boy sits hugging a stuffed rabbit, alone, always alone.
Today, I noticed something different. A piece of folded paper peeking out from his worn backpack caught my eye.
Colorful crayon tally marks were scribbled inside, and a faint glint from a hidden wire poked out of the rabbit he hugged tightly.
My heart sank as I realized this wasn’t child’s play. It was more watchful, more deliberate.
The boy seems suspended between innocence and something far more serious. Like he’s observing the world, not simply a child at ease.
I work long hours at a local social services office, handling paperwork and client appointments.
After my shifts, I often stop at the library or walk through the park to clear my head.
The responsibility of keeping up with deadlines and managing people’s urgent needs weighs on me.
Outside of work, I juggle caring for my aging mother and managing my own frayed nerves.
The boy’s presence haunts me, though I try to focus on my routine.
Yesterday, as I approached closer than usual, he left hurriedly, clutching the rabbit tighter.
Today, a man stood at a distance, a phone pressed to his ear, always alert.
The scene is unsettling, like a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit.
The neighborhood seems to ignore the boy, but I can’t.
There’s a community meeting next week about safety, and I’m supposed to speak.
I dread bringing this up, fearing skepticism or backlash.
But the need to protect him gnaws at me.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
