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The rock fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. Erosion had shaped it smooth except for a jagged edge; his thumb ran over it repeatedly. It was soothing, even more so than his doodling pad.
It was quieter in this room though he could still hear chatter down the hall. The other half a dozen children were playing; the caretakers had mostly given up trying to push him into joining.
Holland flinched when the door creaked open.
It wasn’t one of the caretakers but a short girl, maybe a year or two younger than him. She squinted at him. “Can I hide in here?”
He nodded. She darted forward, crawling under his bed where she was hidden by the bed sheet.
Barely a minute later, one of the adults poked her head in. “Holly, have you seen Ojka?”
His mother had called him Holly a lot, a little nickname that even Alox would use on occasion. That was the only name the adults here seemed to call him.
Holland shook his head. It wasn’t really a lie; he couldn’t remember the names of most of the people here. This was just a temporary group home.
She pursed her lips, turning away with a mutter. He though he caught the word useless.
After a few moments, the girl crawled out of her hiding place and plopped onto the space across of him. He scooted back against the headboard to give them more room. Then said without an ounce of shame, “she’s a bitch, isn’t she?”
Holland blinked.
The girl, Ojka he had to assume, tilted her head. “Why did they toss you in here? Did you bite one of the adults too, is that why you aren’t outside playing?”
He shook his head. He didn’t know how to explain it, aside from just not wanting to. Even if he could, the words wouldn’t come, like they were trapped in his throat.
“I’m Ojka.” She held out her small hand and he cautiously shook it. “It’s supposed to mean jade but my mom spelled it wrong. Is your name Holly? You don’t look like a Holly.”
How was he supposed to explain without words? Then he remembered the doodling pad and scrambled to get it from the bedside table drawer.
In neat simple letters he wrote his name and showed it to her.
His body was tense. He prepared for the scoffing dismissal, the lack of understanding.
It didn’t come.
“Holland,” she repeated. “It’s a good name for you.”
The tightness in his chest started to unwind. Perhaps she was different from the others.
She looked at his bare arms and then at the sweater tossed in the corner. “Aren’t you cold?”
He shrugged. He was used to being cold; easier to tolerate the cold than the fabric that itched even more than the hair strands against his neck.
Ojka had a dozen more questions after that, ranging from ‘why can’t you talk’ to ‘what’s your favorite animal.’
It was refreshing.