Chapter 7

About an hour later, the girl, already seated at the table, was enjoying a fried chicken, which, by the way, was well done, well done. The rice was sticky, and the beans lacked salt; she considered complaining but eventually remembered that this would wipe the fake smile – which she didn't know was fake – off his face.

"It's a… delicious… uncle!" she commented as she chewed and closed her eyes to disguise the bitterness the chicken had. "Aren't you going to eat?" she asked, noticing that he hadn't put an extra plate on the table.

"Come on. I know it's shit, I don't usually cook."

"You said it was healthy," she reminded him. He hesitated for a few seconds.

"Yes, which means I eat it, not that I think it's good, there are differences, little girl."

"But you said you didn't use to cook, not that it wasn't good," he looked at her seriously, dumb, and beastly she wasn't, they had the same blood anyway, if he considered himself so smart, evidently his niece would be too.

"Brush your teeth and go to bed," he ordered, but his voice showed no rudeness.

"I can help with the dishes if you like," she offered.

"No, I'll take care of that, go rest, you can watch TV until 10 pm at the latest, okay?"

"You're not staying with me? You haven't stayed with me until now."

"The TV is there, so I don't have to do that, Morgan, and if you want to play, you can do that at school, I have to work," she pouted for a few seconds, which did no good, then headed for the bathroom. She had already had lectures in her childhood on how to brush her teeth properly, and at eleven years old, she already ignored half the steps, as did most people. In the kitchen, Winston had tasted some of his dinners, and concluded to himself, that it was worse than he thought, and if he was going to take care of a child, he should learn to cook fast. His kidnapping plan seemed more distant than before.

The rain was still falling outside when Morgan showed his intruding child's face at Winston's office door. He rolled his eyes and closed the book he was flipping through.

"What do you want?" he asked, taking off his glasses, which he wore only for reading.

"You're a psychologist, aren't you?" he nodded. "So you're going to consult me?" he questioned.

"You want to be consulted?"

"I thought consultations were matters of need, not want," and he expressed victory in his argument, an astute child after all.

"If that's what you say, you require a consultation," he remained serious. She finally entered the office, for the first time. She walked over to the desk where he was standing and touched the closed book.

"What were you reading?"

"Nothing that a child can understand. Anyway, what do you want, Morgan? I won't play with you, so if that's it, you can go back to the living room."

"I'm tired of TV.

"Then go to sleep.

"I'm not sleepy."

"Then what do you want?" he was already losing patience.

"You can consult me since you're not doing anything, and neither am I.

"To your misfortune, I'm busy, reading."

"You don't read a closed book, Uncle," expressed the victorious look once again. Perhaps, after those teases, Winston would again consider using her as an official victim, with the others.

"Morgan, go back to the room, I'll be right there, all right with you?"

"Fine," and at last, she left the room. He sighed with exhaustion; it had been a busy day, it was raining, and the girl in a single day had already given him work.

In the living room, as she sat on the sofa, he pushed his armchair in front of her. He had carried with him, paper and pen, to make the whole thing an official appointment, and the girl seemed animated, which was strange to him, she was not like Martin, who was happy at appointments, just to pass the time chatting and judging by her animation judging by her cheerfulness, he must have never been around a psychologist before, which made him think about his sister's death, I mean, he thought that dealing with the sudden death of a relative was enough for a social worker to refer the child for a consultation first, before, of course, resolving the custody issue; However, thinking about it further, he had forgotten about the fact that he was a psychologist, which made sense to have this step excluded, as well as the fact that Ms. Miller had checked his background before he died. Miller had checked his background before making the offer, perhaps it had more to do with his profession, than actual custody. She concluded that he would be the first person she would tell about her grief over the death of her parents, so it was serious business, and particularly dealing with it on a rainy day was too melancholy, but she had already promised him, and with all the excitement on her part, she couldn't go back.

Mr. Connel skipped the part of the questions that he already knew the answers to, and started asking delicately and attentively personal questions about events in her life, such as, "What was your home like?", "What did you like to do?" "What about eating?" and so on; she answered naturally, without any awkwardness.

"At the house presentation, I noticed that you seemed uncomfortable with the upstairs bedroom. Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, attentive to her behavior.

"It was too tight," an atmosphere of insecurity was picked up in the room. That room wasn't cramped at all, it wasn't, he mentioned that. "Then maybe it was too empty, I don't know," she commented, also confused, it was the first time she had shown such discomfort in front of him.

"Do you feel uncomfortable in spaces that are too small, or enclosed?" he questioned, she said in a shy gesture, and with her head down, “Yes”.

"I think you have an excellent chance of having Claustrophobia."

"And what is that?" she looked startled.

"It's a type of phobia, basically you feel bad in enclosed and not very spacious places, it's not serious, and it's even common, but all you can do is avoid being in those types of situations."