He's in the hospital for a long time after that, long enough to celebrate his seventh birthday in the ward. There are surgeries and social workers and specialists, and it's not an especially happy time for him, looking back. When the searing pain in his body finally, finally begins to fade, the boy discovers the hospital is a thoroughly boring place. It's too loud, and uncomfortably bright at all hours of the day. Reluctantly he waits for the ordeal to end.

The doctors repair what they can of his burnt insides; his raw tongue, the tissues of his mouth, throat, and stomach. The poison didn't kill him, but it did come close. The doctors tell the boy he'll never speak another word in his life, that it's nothing short of a miracle he can still eat in his condition, can still breathe.

It's the nurses that he really hates, however. They are all too bright and cheery for his comfort, too nice. He picks anxiously at the food they give him, terrified of being poisoned again. The last person who acted so nice to him was his sister, and she gave him the lye, so naturally he's a little suspicious of such behavior after that. It's an unpleasant association, one he'll carry with him for the rest of his life.

The boy will never seek out the kindness of strangers. He will never accept compassion from anyone else. What friendships he does form in this state will be deadly, delicate things.

And he will cherish them.

Life at the hospital grows more disagreeable by the day. The boy sleeps poorly and feels overexposed, wrapping himself tightly in his cloak to ward away nightmares. The nurses don't take the garment away from him; though they did try, once—the boy screamed at them with raw broken half-noises and thrashed like an animal, clawing in a rage at their arms and faces and whatever skin he could reach. The tantrum jeopardized the healing in his throat and they never tried again, letting the swallowed blood and soreness act as punishment enough. The nurses act different toward him and not so nice after that, which the boy appreciates. If acting like a wicked child gets him what he wants, then so be it. He files this information away to use later, when he's old enough to really understand it. Then he sleeps.

He doesn't see his mother in the hospital, or his siblings. Someone may have told him what became of them at some point, but at the time, he had more important things (survival) to worry about. The social workers keep hinting that he'll be given to a new, unknown family when he leaves the hospital, which bothers him. It's not that the boy misses his own family, though he does, a little, but he doesn't want any more siblings or a new mother. If it's going to come to that, he'd really rather just not have a family at all.

A sentiment like that is very hard to explain, especially without any words. The boy doesn't try.

Instead he decides on a different plan.

One dreary morning, when he finally feels well enough to leave, the boy smiles brightly at the nurse who comes in to bring him a tray of dessert. Then he fans out his cloak dramatically and disappears, vanishing into a vortex of shadows in thin air. He laughs silently to himself at the expression on her face, the utter bewilderment and ever-so-slight trace of fear.

He didn't have to wait for an audience, of course. But it's more fun that way. The boy is still a child, still enjoys making mischief for its own sake.

His fun won't be innocent for long. Already, he's grown to like the gleam of betrayal and comprehension in people's eyes—the look he sees on those who realize, far too late, that he's been playing them all for fools.

And does he ever love to play.