He hadn’t blinked in forty-seven days.
Not once.
The social workers called it catatonia. The therapists called it dissociation. The placement staff called it “non-compliant behavior.” They wrote reports about his flat affect and lack of engagement, as if the absence of blinking was a choice he had made to inconvenience them.
But it wasn’t.
Eight-year-old Micah had stopped blinking because blinking meant missing something. And missing something, in the places he had been, could get you hurt. Or worse.
He sat in the corner of a stripped-down bedroom with his knees pulled to his chest, arms locked around them like he was trying to hold his own bones together. The closet door was open six inches. Just enough for him to see the hallway. Just enough to watch who came and went. His eyes were open, dry, and unblinking. They had been that way since the day they moved him out of the last facility.
The one with the keycard reader on the door.
The one with the bars on the windows.
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