Invaded (Alienated, #2)(57)

Cara greeted the teenager in charge of supervising the child. “I can sit with him awhile if you’d like to take a br—”

“Oh, thank the Mother!” The girl tapped her throat twice in a sign of gratitude, then bolted from the room before Cara had a chance to ask the child’s name.

She observed the boy, taking in the wispy brown locks plastered to his cheeks by tears, tiny hands clenched into fists, his quivering chin slick with drool. During the brief moments he stopped crying, his breath hitched so badly he could barely catch it. Cara didn’t know much about kids, but this didn’t look like a temper tantrum. The boy seemed genuinely miserable.

She sat beside the toddler and pulled him into her lap, then pressed a hand to his forehead to check for fever. “You don’t feel warm,” she said. “What’s wrong, bud?”

He rested his head against her chest and cried out again, seeking comfort by clinging tightly to her tunic. Cara rocked from side to side while patting the boy’s back. Over the next ten minutes, she hummed and bounced and cooed, using every soothing technique she knew, but nothing worked.

He was hurting—she sensed it.

After ensuring nobody was watching from the window, she took his face in her hands and peered into his eyes, opening her mind to him.

“Where does it hurt?” she asked aloud in L’eihr.

Hurt, he mentally repeated, which didn’t help much. Using Silent Speech with toddlers was a challenge because they couldn’t form coherent thoughts. Instead of dialogue, they shared snippets of desire or emotion in a jumble that often didn’t make sense. This time was no exception.

Cara wanted to help the boy, but she didn’t know how. She rested her fingertips against his belly and locked gazes with him in desperation. Hurt? She moved her hand to his head. Hurt? After repeating the query at his ears and throat, she touched his legs. Hurt here? Where is the hurt?

He understood—she felt it within his consciousness. He opened his mouth and pointed inside, then told her, Hurt here, and projected a sensation she recognized at once. She’d known that pain at sixteen, when her wisdom teeth had pushed a jagged trail to the surface of her gums. This baby was cutting teeth—probably his two-year molars.

Anger flared through her, flushing her cheeks and making her hot all over. Teething was a common issue among young children, so why hadn’t the nursery workers checked for this? How long would they have let the boy cry before realizing he was in pain?

And they had the audacity to call her slow.

First, she was going to treat his sore gums with an analgesic swab. Then she was going to tear someone a new L’*. Holding tightly to the boy, she pushed to standing and stalked across the room. But when Cara threw aside the door and stepped into the hall, she came to a sudden halt.

Wait a minute.

Had she used Silent Speech with this boy? With words and everything?

Cara’s lips parted and spread into a smile. She’d really done it!

Her anger evaporated, morphing into triumph. After tireless hours of practice, she’d finally discovered the part of her brain required to share complete thoughts. Now that she’d isolated it, the region felt like a muscle she’d never known existed. She flexed it while gazing into the boy’s eyes. We’ll fix the hurt, she told him.

It was easier now!

Hurt, was all he said. He didn’t understand anything more.

She carried him to the first-aid station and strapped him into the counter seat, then fished in the cubby for a plastic swab. She showed it to the boy and opened her mouth to model what she wanted him to do. Open big.

When he obeyed, she snapped the tip off the medicated end and dabbed thick, syrupy liquid over the back of his gums, where bits of white bone had begun to poke through the flesh. She massaged the medication into the swollen tissue and opened her mind to him. No hurt?

Bad taste, he complained, but his pain was gone. Give drink.

“Okay.” She spoke aloud in L’eihr after noticing Gram, the nursery director, striding into the room with an infant on her shoulder. “Let’s get you some water.”

The boy tugged Cara’s cheek with his sticky palm, initiating eye contact. No water. Reed-milk.

“Or milk,” she said for the director’s benefit. “Would you rather have that?”

Milk, he silently repeated.

Use your words, she told him. Say it loud.

“MILK!”

Gram laughed from the changing station. “He knows what he wants.”

Cara left him buckled in his seat while she fetched a glass of reed-milk, which was similar in taste and consistency to soy. In other words, totally nasty. But the little guy loved it. She helped him finish his drink and told Gram his caregivers had mistaken teething pain for a temper tantrum. Gram promised to have a word with his instructor.

Cara guided the boy back to the toddler room and left him with a kiss on the cheek, which he promptly scrubbed away with his fist. That was gratitude for you. But no matter. Nothing could bring her down. Cara’s accomplishment had her beaming like a new quarter. She couldn’t wait to tell Aelyx tomorrow—he would be so proud.

Since the seclusion room was empty and she doubted the preschool instructor wanted any more of her help, Cara decided to sneak off to the intermediate course to blow off some steam. Besides, she was on a roll today. She’d managed to get Elle to open up about her grief, then she’d unlocked the next level of Silent Speech. If good things came in threes, she’d conquer those wily spinners before dinner.