I had been taken with him. Of course I had been. Like every child we’d met, I would have adopted him on the spot and taken him home. I did not care about the HIV, the accident, the fire, his scar tissue, the skin grafts he would need and continue to need, his mother the convicted drug dealer. I did not care that he had a problem with continence, that he would wet the bed or shit his pants at the most inappropriate times. I just wanted to take him in my arms and do some loving on him and show him that everything was going to be fine.
“You’re the only couple who’s ever asked to see him,” Heather said. “I don’t think he knows how to process it. He’s scared.”
“I imagine he is.”