“What’s that?” I pointed to a blue line that trailed across the chart up and down.
Ben looked serious as he followed my finger’s path. “That’s a measure of happiness in the sample population.”
I raised a hand to cover my smile. For a nine-year old boy, he was incredibly articulate, and in the two days he had been in our home, I’d already started to love him. Part of it was because he was a smart and quirky little boy that talked like a little adult and tended to dress like he was late for a business meeting—polished shoes and jackets, clip-on ties and slicked back hair. Part of it was because it was so clear he needed that love. He had sad, haunted-looking eyes that had clearly seen too much, likely even before the accident at the orphanage.
“What about that one?” I pointed to a purple line that intersected with the blue happiness line in several spots.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s a measure of sadness in the sample population.”
Patting his shoulder gingerly, I imagined I could still smell the gas wafting up from his jacket’s little shoulder pad. When I’d asked where he had gotten all the grown-up looking clothes, the lady at foster care had just shrugged. Said it was her understanding he’d had them when he was abandoned at a fire station the year before.
They told me that he wouldn’t talk about where he had come from, who his family had been. One of my goals was to get him to trust me enough that he felt comfortable sharing that in time.
“What about the red line?”
He glanced up at me. “That’s the measure of fear in the sample population.”
The poor kid. The red line had several spikes, shooting up at the end before stopping. My guess was this was his way of trying to process his time at the orphanage. At having to watch ten of his little friends burn to death, and several more suffocate, as gas filled that place just two weeks ago.
“What about that one?” This green line shot up at the end too.
“That’s a measure of death in the sample population.”
I felt tears springing up in my eyes and I tried to fight them back. “I…I see. What’s the black line going across right above the green one?”
He looked up at me again. “That’s the acceptable loss parameters in the sample population. As you can see from the green line, that parameter was not met in this instance.”
I lifted my hand from his shoulder. I should have asked more, but I was suddenly afraid to. I needed time to process and regroup first.
“Okay…Well, dinner will be in an hour.”
He nodded to me as he pulled out a new piece of poster board. “Good. I have to start working on my new chart. I’ll be hungry again soon.”
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