On Tuesday, The Child begins taking Prozac, and that evening, we sit in a small room together, away from the din, building a castle out of moon sand. She tells me about her new friends: the homeless kid, the drug addict, the one who wakes up screaming at night. She doesn’t seem unhappy, though she misses her bed and her friends.
She wants to know how much longer she will stay.
I don’t know; it’s beyond my control. Even if it weren’t, I need time to make the house safe for you.
She says, I’m not going to kill myself, you know. She’s sarcastic, but quieter than before, the sharp edge slightly worn away.
I don’t know that. We just have to see what the doctors say.