He just sat with his head slightly lowered, as if he was listening to something no one else could hear.
His mother stayed close beside him.
Every few seconds, she leaned toward his ear and whispered. With her other hand, she traced quick patterns into his palm.
Again and again.
At first, I thought maybe he was overwhelmed by the noise.
Then I wondered if he had sensory issues.
Maybe she was calming him down.
Maybe it was some kind of routine.
Whatever it was, I couldn’t stop watching.
Dean noticed.
“What?” he asked, holding his hot dog.
I nodded toward them. “That little boy.”
Dean glanced over. “What about him?”
“Do you see what she’s doing?”
He watched for a few seconds. “I see it, but I don’t understand it.”
“Me neither,” I said softly. “I just hope they’re okay.”
The woman barely watched the game herself.
