Owen used to be a blur of energy. He was the kind of six-year-old who moved like a hummingbird, never sitting for more than ten seconds, his sneakers always scuffed from running. I loved that version of him. I loved how he’d barrel through my back door, his hair a mess, demanding to know if I had any of those peanut butter cookies he likes.

Then came the spring. The change wasn’t sudden, like a storm breaking, but more like a slow leak in a tire. He started coming over quiet. He’d sit on my kitchen stool, picking at the label on his juice box, his eyes darting toward the window every time a car turned onto my street.

I told myself he was just growing up. I blamed the move to the new neighborhood, the new school, and the arrival of his little half-sister, Maya. That’s the part I hate the most. I made excuses for him because the truth felt too heavy to hold. I thought, he’s just adjusting. I thought, it’s a big transition.

But then I saw the flinch.

It was a Tuesday in early April. I had the TV on low, just background noise, and my son-in-law, Brent, had stopped by to drop off some paperwork. He’s the kind of guy who fills up a room. He’s loud, he wears cologne that sticks to the curtains for hours, and he has this habit of calling every man he meets “boss” and every woman “sweetheart.”

Brent reached across the couch to grab the remote. He didn’t even look at Owen. He just made a quick, jagged movement.

Owen, who was sitting three feet away, didn’t just blink. He went rigid. His shoulders climbed up to his ears, his jaw clamped shut, and he pressed his back into the cushion as if he were trying to disappear into the fabric. He looked like a rabbit caught in a trap. He didn’t make a sound. He just held his breath and waited.

I felt a cold prickle of sweat break out on the back of my neck. I waited until Brent left. I waited until I heard his truck pull away from the curb.

I walked over to the couch. Owen was still sitting in the exact same position, staring at the blank screen.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. “You okay?”

He didn’t look at me. He just kept his eyes glued to the plastic frame of the TV.

“You have to hold real still so it doesn’t start,” he whispered.

My heart didn’t shatter. It felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. I sat down beside him, making sure to keep my movements slow and deliberate.

“What starts, honey?” I asked, my voice barely a thread.

He shrugged. He looked small. He looked like he was a thousand miles away, hiding in some dark place I couldn’t reach.

“The counting game,” he said.

“Tell me about the game.”