Chapter 16 - THE SMELL OF SMOKE
Quincy could not tolerate fireplaces for almost a year.
Even gas fireplaces.
A restaurant had one near the entrance.
He froze.
Grabbed my hand.
“No.”
We left.
No exposure therapy by force.
Dr. Lena Moore referred us to Maya Chen, a child therapist specializing in trauma.
Maya used play.
Not interrogation.
Dinosaurs.
Drawing.
Toy houses.
Eventually Quincy built a block fireplace.
Placed a plastic dinosaur beside it.
Then moved the dinosaur away himself.
“Too close.”
“Good choice,” Maya said.
Not:
Brave boy.
Choice.
He started sleeping with the burned dinosaur every night.
I offered to replace it.
“No.”
“Why?”
“He knows.”
“What does Dino know?”
Quincy shrugged.
“Everything.”
I stopped asking.
At five, he agreed to have the blackened foot repaired.
Not replaced.
A seamstress used green fabric that did not quite match.
Quincy liked it.
“He has armor.”
Fine.
I never removed the camera from evidence mentally.
But physically, police returned it after appeals deadlines and copies were preserved.
I locked it in a safe.
Quincy did not need a spy device inside his comfort object.
May you like
The dinosaur became a dinosaur again.
That mattered.
