[The boy will start under the touch, as though he isn't sure what to do about it. But he doesn't squirm away, hands tightening against the blankets to pull them closer. There are distant screams from the window far above their heads, the only source of light, the only touch of the outside world. There are voices from the other side of the heavy door, though they are so muffled and distant that it becomes nothing but background noise.]
They'll get mad if I'm talking to people they don't want me to talk to. I think... um... do grownups get scared?
Cause Mama and Papa, they can't hear it. The things I hear. And their voices always sound angry and sad. So I think they must look angry and sad, too.
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They'll get mad if I'm talking to people they don't want me to talk to. I think... um... do grownups get scared?
Cause Mama and Papa, they can't hear it. The things I hear. And their voices always sound angry and sad. So I think they must look angry and sad, too.