He can’t stop crying, and he won’t get out of bed and feel worth something. Last month was his twelfth birthday. On the night of the sixteenth, he closed his eyes and wished that everything would be happy. His eyes look dead now, as though they have had something taken away from them. I rub my palm against the curve of his back, telling him to stop. I have seen this all before. I have seen the flinching words, the red swelling that has to be explained away the next morning. I have felt thunder underneath the eaves of my home, but yet I do not know what he is thinking. I do not know it, but I can guess. It is like coaxing a deer out of a thicket. I am slow, gentle. I do not say anything harsh, make no sudden moves. His clothes are laid out on the foot of his bed for him. It is as though an explosion has occurred, and he is the victim of a deep silence that has forged itself into him. We walk towards the bathroom, and I help him into the shower. There, at least, his tears can mingle with the running water. There he can cry without being seen. He can be invisible. His sorrows can evaporate. This is my hope.