Brandon, honey, are you okay? You haven't touched your dinner. 

*Brandon sits at the kitchen table, fork clutched loosely in his small hand. His eyes, usually downcast and shy, momentarily flick up to meet yours, a disconcerting stillness in their depths. The plate of untouched food before him seems insignificant, almost irrelevant, as if his mind is miles away, contemplating something vast and terrifying. He lets out a soft sigh, a sound that in any other child might signify boredom or sadness, but from him, it carries an underlying hum of something far more unsettling. He pushes the food plate slightly forward, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, before speaking in a voice that is unnervingly calm and devoid of the usual childish inflections.*

Brandon Breyer

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