"Display boy." Art heard whispered in the courtyard.

Apparently, one of the staff leaked Art's store discovery, leading some of the other kids to call him names. They mostly spoke behind his back.

Art watched the gate, counted headlights, and stared out into the town below.

When he was younger, he hoped someone might stop. That someone might come back for him. He used to scratch days into the wall under his bed. Then he stopped. He folded the hope that someone might still come, pressed it flat, and hid it where even he couldn't find it.

He was seven now. He survived by the rules: how to disappear when adults got mad, how to spot a bully before they approached, and how to make himself invisible.

He avoided teachers like Mrs. Fern, who always smiled more at the unruly ones. The others could vanish and she'd never notice.

He stopped speaking unless asked twice. Even then, every word felt expensive. He knew which boards creaked in his dorm. He knew which adults ignored bad behavior.

Art never cried. Not even at night. Crying would get him noticed.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

There was a group of older boys who liked to bully others, led by a kid named Book.

It wasn't always punches, but shoves, words too close to his face, and the blocking of doors. They would take things and give them back wrong, play games where the rules changed as soon as he figured them out.

He didn't tell others, especially adults. He knew better than to expect rescuers. He just folded inward. Smaller. Quieter. Until most of the time he wasn't even the quiet kid—just something that happened to be in the room.

"Display Boy." The shove came from behind, hard enough to knock the breath out of him. Art stumbled but caught himself on the rough bark of the mango tree and stared at the dirt.

Book's gang circled him again in the courtyard.

"I'm talking to you," Book said. Art knew the rules. Rule one: Don't make a noise. Rule two: Don't look at them. If you look at them, it's a challenge. You must look at the ground. He focused on the veins of a dry leaf. One. Two. Three. Four.

"He's doing it again," another boy laughed. "He's gone into sleep mode." Book stepped closer. He was ten, tall for his age, and smelled like he was afraid of taking a shower. He pushed Art's forehead with a thick finger.

Thump. Thump.

Art let his body go slack. It was a trick he had learned here. The more he reacted, the more they continued. Book kicked his shin. Art flinched—a mistake—and Book grinned. "Oh, he feels that. Maybe he likes it." Book shoved him again, sending Art into the dust. "Freak."

Art lay there. Getting up meant getting knocked down again. He waited for the spit. He knew it was coming. It wasn't the first time. The others started shoving him and laughing. "He acts like it doesn't bother him," yelling in Art's face. "Maybe he's a freak that likes pain."

"Stop touching him."

Book paused and turned around.

Standing by the open gate was a boy. He looked about seven—Art's age—but they couldn't be more different. This boy stood with his feet planted wide, like he owned the ground; his eyes were piercing and unblinking, commanding the situation and wearing an expression that said, 'Don't mess with me.'

On his hip sat a tiny toddler, her face squeezed into his neck. She peeked out at the courtyard as if the trees themselves might try to take her brother.

A dark blue duffel bag lay in the dust at his feet. His shirt hung off his shoulders, sagging from the toddler's weight.

"Who the hell are you?" Book demanded.

The new boy shot a glance at Art. He said nothing as he shifted the toddler to his other hip.

"Hey! Don't ignore me!" Book sneered and jabbed a finger at him.

The courtyard went quiet. The boy stared into Book's eyes, challenging him.

"...What?"

Book laughed, but it was an uncertain sound.

The newcomer cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, the snapping sound menacing in the silence.

There was clearly something wrong with this kid, but as the leader, Book couldn't let him off that easily.

Book hesitated before walking straight up to the boy. Just then, the director appeared in front of the main building.

"Whatever," Book muttered, as he turned back and spit on the ground near Art's head. "Watch your back, meung." Book signaled his crew, and they slunk away, casting confused glances over their shoulders.

A young, nervous-looking woman with kind eyes wearing a suit dress walked up from a car parked a bit down the road adjacent to the gate. She was carrying a clipboard.

"Thanom, let's bring Mali to meet the director," she said.

Art's eyes crept upward towards the new boy, Thanom; he didn't seem fazed by Book at all. He looked down at Art. For a second, Art thought he might kick him too. Instead, Thanom just nodded.

He carried the girl and his belongings to the threshold of the main building.

Thanom knelt to untie Mali's sneakers, then he took his own off. He placed them neatly on the crowded rack of flip-flops and mismatched sandals by the door. Thanom picked Mali back up and followed the woman.

Art discreetly followed them to the office door; he couldn't go in, but he could hear the Director say Thanom was seven and Mali was three. He heard that Thanom was protective of his sister and refused to eat unless she did first. Their mother passed away and their father was unknown.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Later, in the dormitory, Art lingered by the entrance as the siblings were shown to their 'new' living space. Someone had tried to scrub it clean, but it still bore the traces of past neglect.

Thanom set Mali down gently, tucked her hair behind her ear, and waited until her breathing slowed before looking up.

She was too small for the oversized shirt she wore. Her hand drifted toward her hair to pull it until Thanom caught it and moved it aside, whispering with patience, "Don't worry. I'm here."

Thanom unpacked for both of them while Mali hid under a yellow ducky blanket she brought with her.

Art hadn't wanted to say anything but something inside pushed the words out of him.

"You're really not scared of Book?"

Thanom stopped folding a shirt and turned to meet his eyes. Then nodded.

"Are you?" Thanom asked.

Art peeked at the space beside Thanom—it looked inviting. He wanted to step closer so badly it hurt, but he knew the rules here: you don't take what isn't offered. He took a small step back, shaking his head. It was a clear lie, but it was also his way of giving them space.

Thanom studied him for a long moment. He saw the retreat. He scanned Art's skinny arms covered in bruises.

Then Thanom glanced back at Mali, whose fingers had found the hem of his shirt even in sleep.

"Okay," he said. "You can hang with us."

Art didn't move immediately. Nothing here was free. If you accepted a gift, you usually paid for it with your dessert, your pillow, or a bruise later. Art hesitated.

"I don't have anything for you." Art looked at the floor.

"I don't want anything."

Thanom shifted his weight to block the breeze from hitting Mali. He looked at Art, his expression setting a new rule.

"Stay with me," Thanom said. "I'll be Phi."

Phi. Older brother. Art knew he was actually a few months older than Thanom—he'd overheard their birthdays earlier—but he didn't care. He didn't mind being Nong. Being Nong meant someone else was watching the door.