A Block of Broken Houses

The Boy in the Room

Moira sat in an overpriced office chair at a long metal desk in a cramped second-floor observation room. Through the one-way mirror and into the large adjacent test room, she studied the boy dressed in the blue gown, although she doubted the mirror fooled any of the children anymore, if it ever had. On the desk in front of her were a clipboard, three freshly sharpened pencils, a wireless microphone perched upon a small stand, a digital timer, and a digital audio recorder, the last of which she rarely used; she liked to observe first, record later. The first page of the clipboard was empty, waiting, just as she was. Four cameras, one hidden on each wall of the test room, would document whatever she missed, the footage completing her notes, filling in the blanks.

It was going on three quiet minutes when the boy finally asked if there was anything he should be doing. She said nothing and waited. When he asked the question a second time, Moira shifted her coffee from her right hand to her left, leaned forward, depressed the button at the microphone's base, and answered: "Whatever you feel like, Samuel." She then sat back and watched.

Samuel nodded, a clean and neat gesture, and then went to the shelves to the left of the solid door, which happened to be locked on Moira's side. He plucked a jigsaw puzzle from the large pile of them: Captain America, arms crossed and standing in front of a large and flapping Old Glory. She made a note. Samuel proceeded to the circular table in the centre of the room and emptied the box's contents upon it, took a seat. Before he began to right the pieces, she reminded him: "The blindfold, Samuel." He reached into the front pocket of his gown and pulled it out—a thick black strip of fabric—laid it across his eyes, then wrapped and tied it. Once his hand touched the first of the puzzle pieces, Moira began the timer.

There was a faint beep, and the door leading to the hallway was pushed open. Oscar slid in, the door closing automatically behind him. He approached the table and, without looking at Moira, with his attention on the boy with the puzzle, said: "You'll need to pick up your things before Friday. I've boxed them—there wasn't much—but it's all there and accounted fo—" She gave him a piercing glance. He sensed it and turned toward her, and in an attempt to change the subject, he said: "I can't believe you drink that shit." He pointed to the cup of coffee she held, his smirk awkward, forced. "What did that run you? Eight ninety-five?"

She returned her attention to the boy in the room, leaned forward. Samuel's progression was impressive.

"Jesus, Moira," Oscar sighed. "Communication never was your strength."

Moira hushed him (he winced) and she leaned in closer still.

"By Friday," he said, folding his arms across his chest, as if that ended it.

She thought about this, and then asked: "Is there someone else already?" She was joking, half smiling, and when he did not answer, she glanced at him, her smile failing. "You're an asshole. It's been a week and a half."

"Moira, I—"

"Shut it," she said, firm because now Samuel was nearly finished the jigsaw puzzle, one he had only just begun working on. For a wonder, Oscar did shut it. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and turned his focus to the kid, who was just finishing up.

"Three minutes, five-point-three-nine-six seconds," Moira said, after touching the timer's PAUSE button.

"Holy shit," Oscar said, and just like that, their romantic relationship—what little there was left of it—was forgotten. They were scientists first and knew what they had signed up for, how important their work was. Oscar leaned over and checked the digital reading on the timer, certain that Moira had misread it. "Jesus."