bed, hitting the ground with a loud thud.
He froze, expecting a childish call to crack the silence.
Ram knocked and poked his head in; his eyes widened at the piles of books. Truman knew he was counting them.
“True, this is beyond obsession. Over what? Some personification of a woman you’ve invented?”
Truman ground his teeth together. “I did not invent her. I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t give a crap if you don’t believe me; I have more important things to worry about.”
Ram’s dark eyebrows knitted. “Yes, you do. Like the Fall Harvest Festival today. Like all the money it raises for the orphanage. Like our paychecks. Like that new little boy upstairs, who seems to only respond to you , not me? Like all the other children we have here. Like the date you have with Antonia tonight.”
“Bullocks. I completely forgot about her. I made that months ago. I’m canceling.”
“No, you-are-not canceling. It’s been eons since you were on a date. You’re going. Close that computer and help me with the insanity downstairs. We vowed to do this together, did we not?”
Ram’s voice was tired and his eyes were bleary. He looked a decade older today.
He’d been selfish, leaving Ram with the brunt of the work.
They’d promised to do it together—to give a few children a shot at a happy childhood. Unlike their own.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been selfish,” he said, snapping the laptop closed. “I’ve just… never felt this way. Ever.”
Ram rolled his eyes, but they softened a fraction. “Typical you. Could never fall in love in a normal way, with a normal person.”
“No, that would definitely be boring.”
* * *
10:00 a.m.
Truman slid into the pantry, hiding. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, escaping the chaos, searching his head for any remaining-shreds of patience. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The calliope music from the carnival filtered under the door—reminding him his respite was limited.
I’m bloody losing it.
He flipped open his phone and texted Antonia. A total cop-out.
Have to cancel. Sorry. Something came up. True.
He hoped it would be enough and she didn’t just show on his porch—that woman did not take no for an answer.
He hit the ‘send’ button and startled as the pantry door slid open.
Tiny Andrew stared up at him; his huge, black eyes questioning. “Truman, are you coming? We don’t have much time.”
“Yes, so right you are, lad.”
Outside, the barnyard was a flurry of activity. Children and volunteers streaked back and forth on fast forward.
It would be comical if he weren’t so utterly stressed.
Ram strode toward him, his face grim. “Are you ready? Cruella De Ville cometh.”
He turned, indicating a tall, grey haired woman, distinctly out of place in the barnyard.
Her long, shapely legs teetered on high heels, her designer bag dangling from red-hot nails. Her new tightened skin belied her current face-lift.
Ram chortled. “The devil does wear Prada.”
Truman dropped his voice. “And Gucci. That bag she’s clutching costs as much as our mortgage.”
“What’s that expression about biting the hand that….”
Truman cleared his throat as the woman arrived.
She studiously ignored Ram.
“Truman! So wonderful to see you again. Are you ready to give me the tour?” She extended a hand to him.
Truman cringed. Ram intentionally sicked the older woman on him. She fancied him—was in love with his accent.
“Yes, mum.”
Ram winked behind her back. Truman returned with an I’ll-deal-with-you-later look.
“Ram, I will speak with you when we are finished,” she added with a flippant wave.
Truman led her into the orphanage, beginning with the ground floor and the O.T. clinic, explaining the different types of patients seen there. He opened the sliding doors for her to peek inside.
“We have loads of kids with sensory integration problems, autism spectrum disorders, Down’s Syndrome, and many
He froze, expecting a childish call to crack the silence.
Ram knocked and poked his head in; his eyes widened at the piles of books. Truman knew he was counting them.
“True, this is beyond obsession. Over what? Some personification of a woman you’ve invented?”
Truman ground his teeth together. “I did not invent her. I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t give a crap if you don’t believe me; I have more important things to worry about.”
Ram’s dark eyebrows knitted. “Yes, you do. Like the Fall Harvest Festival today. Like all the money it raises for the orphanage. Like our paychecks. Like that new little boy upstairs, who seems to only respond to you , not me? Like all the other children we have here. Like the date you have with Antonia tonight.”
“Bullocks. I completely forgot about her. I made that months ago. I’m canceling.”
“No, you-are-not canceling. It’s been eons since you were on a date. You’re going. Close that computer and help me with the insanity downstairs. We vowed to do this together, did we not?”
Ram’s voice was tired and his eyes were bleary. He looked a decade older today.
He’d been selfish, leaving Ram with the brunt of the work.
They’d promised to do it together—to give a few children a shot at a happy childhood. Unlike their own.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been selfish,” he said, snapping the laptop closed. “I’ve just… never felt this way. Ever.”
Ram rolled his eyes, but they softened a fraction. “Typical you. Could never fall in love in a normal way, with a normal person.”
“No, that would definitely be boring.”
* * *
10:00 a.m.
Truman slid into the pantry, hiding. He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, escaping the chaos, searching his head for any remaining-shreds of patience. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. The calliope music from the carnival filtered under the door—reminding him his respite was limited.
I’m bloody losing it.
He flipped open his phone and texted Antonia. A total cop-out.
Have to cancel. Sorry. Something came up. True.
He hoped it would be enough and she didn’t just show on his porch—that woman did not take no for an answer.
He hit the ‘send’ button and startled as the pantry door slid open.
Tiny Andrew stared up at him; his huge, black eyes questioning. “Truman, are you coming? We don’t have much time.”
“Yes, so right you are, lad.”
Outside, the barnyard was a flurry of activity. Children and volunteers streaked back and forth on fast forward.
It would be comical if he weren’t so utterly stressed.
Ram strode toward him, his face grim. “Are you ready? Cruella De Ville cometh.”
He turned, indicating a tall, grey haired woman, distinctly out of place in the barnyard.
Her long, shapely legs teetered on high heels, her designer bag dangling from red-hot nails. Her new tightened skin belied her current face-lift.
Ram chortled. “The devil does wear Prada.”
Truman dropped his voice. “And Gucci. That bag she’s clutching costs as much as our mortgage.”
“What’s that expression about biting the hand that….”
Truman cleared his throat as the woman arrived.
She studiously ignored Ram.
“Truman! So wonderful to see you again. Are you ready to give me the tour?” She extended a hand to him.
Truman cringed. Ram intentionally sicked the older woman on him. She fancied him—was in love with his accent.
“Yes, mum.”
Ram winked behind her back. Truman returned with an I’ll-deal-with-you-later look.
“Ram, I will speak with you when we are finished,” she added with a flippant wave.
Truman led her into the orphanage, beginning with the ground floor and the O.T. clinic, explaining the different types of patients seen there. He opened the sliding doors for her to peek inside.
“We have loads of kids with sensory integration problems, autism spectrum disorders, Down’s Syndrome, and many
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