May I interrupt?

POV: Beatrice

"You have to go," her mother signed.

"But I don't want to!"

"It doesn't matter whether you want to or not," her mother replied firmly.

"I hate you!" As far as Beatrice was concerned, that ended the argument. She simply closed her eyes.

Mother and daughter stood facing each other in the middle of the street, surrounded by people who probably never would have guessed that the two of them were in the middle of a heated argument. Unlike other families, there was no shouting. There wasn't even any talking, and yet they understood each other perfectly.

Beatrice Hartley was six years old and had what her doctors called congenital bilateral profound sensorineural hearing loss. She had been born deaf. Beatrice couldn't hear anything—absolutely nothing.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, her mother had recently started forcing her to go to Mill Grove. Beatrice didn't want to go. No one there understood her except her Teacher. And he, of all people, wanted to teach her how to read lips and speak. The speech exercises in particular were completely stupid.

But the lessons weren't even the worst part. It was the other children. She didn't have to take part in their activities because she had lessons during that time, but she still had to eat lunch with them. And during breaks, her teacher kept encouraging her to play with the other children.

Beatrice hated it. Every time, it only reminded her that she didn't belong there and that nobody really wanted anything to do with her. At first, the other children had been curious about her, but their interest had quickly faded. And after another girl had pushed her a few weeks ago and been severely punished for it, almost everyone had started avoiding her altogether.

Suddenly, her mother grabbed her by the arms and gently shook her until Beatrice reluctantly opened her eyes. What she saw made her freeze. Her mother was crying. Her mother never cried.

"You can hate me as much as you want," she signed. "But I love you. And that's exactly why you have to go."

Tears filled Beatrice's eyes, and she threw her arms around her mother. She didn't want to hurt her, but she really didn't want to go to Mill Grove.

***

POV: Sister Margaret

"Dear God, what is that boy up to now?" Margaret muttered as she watched Oliver march off with his lunch.

At first, she considered calling after him, but the way he was walking already told her that it wouldn't do any good. So instead, she decided to simply follow him. She had no idea that she would deeply regret that decision only a few minutes later.

At first, the sight of the little monster was actually rather amusing. Oliver stood in front of the girl, clearly at a loss for what to do. He had spoken to her twice, and twice she had failed to respond. Now he was standing in the middle of the crowded dining hall with his tray in his hands, looking as though someone had managed to leave him speechless for the first time in his life.

Of course, the girl wasn't ignoring him. She simply couldn't hear him. Margaret knew that, but for the moment, she decided not to interfere.

Margaret didn't know Beatrice Hartley personally, but she had already heard about her—or rather, about her situation. Beatrice and her mother lived only a few streets away, and her mother had approached Mill Grove because one of the carers was a qualified Teacher of the Deaf and had experience with speech and language development.

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For the past few weeks, Beatrice had been coming here almost every day. Her mother homeschooled her in the mornings before bringing her over around lunchtime. Beatrice received additional lessons while also getting the chance to spend more time around other children. So far, at least that last part didn't seem to be going particularly well.

Beatrice didn't have it easy, and neither did Oliver. Perhaps the two of them really could be good for each other. Margaret only hoped that, for once, the little rascal would behave himself and—

She didn't even get to finish the thought before a plate of spaghetti came flying toward her.

Good Lord, she was seventy years old. Once upon a time, she would have dodged it without a problem, but unfortunately, her reflexes weren't quite what they used to be.

Margaret only truly came back to her senses when she heard Oliver laughing. She stared at him in disbelief. The little monster was actually laughing at her after throwing his lunch all over her.

Margaret was practically paralyzed with rage and had already begun considering the best way to torture—punish. Punish him, of course. But before she could settle on an appropriate punishment, the two responsible parties simply ran away.

***

POV: Oliver

He had to give her one thing: the girl might be deaf, but damn, she could run.

Oliver stood bent over in front of the detached house she had disappeared into only moments earlier, desperately trying to catch his breath. His damn four-year-old legs were definitely not built for high-speed pursuits.

Once he could breathe somewhat normally again, he made his way through the front garden toward the door. All he could do was hope that someone inside could hear the doorbell. His finger hovered barely an inch from the button when he stopped.

Why am I even doing this?

He didn't even know her. So why did it bother him so much that some little girl was crying because of him? And suddenly, he realized that this wasn't really about her at all.

From the very beginning, she had only been a means to an end. A way to escape those goddamn afternoons. He hadn't even been in his new life for a month, and already he was falling back into the same habits. He didn't see people. He saw opportunities, possibilities, potential.

No.

He pressed the doorbell. Ding-dong.No more hesitation. Not in this life.

Again. Ding-dong.People are not a means to an end. Never again.

A third time. Ding-dong.No more regrets.

The door opened, but Oliver didn't notice. He was too lost in his own thoughts as his finger pressed the button once more. Ding-dong.I will not become the person I used to be again.

***

POV: Helen Hartley

Helen was just getting ready for work when the front door flew open and her six-year-old daughter rushed past her, tears streaming down her face. She stood there for a moment, watching Beatrice disappear down the hall. Part of her wanted to follow immediately. No mother willingly sent her child somewhere she so clearly hated being, and every time Beatrice came home like this, Helen found herself wondering all over again whether she was really doing the right thing.

Eventually, she headed toward Beatrice's room. She hadn't even reached the door when the doorbell rang. Ding-dong. Helen let out a weary sigh. "What is it now?" she muttered, glancing back toward the entrance. She considered ignoring it and dealing with whoever was outside later. Her daughter needed her more.

Ding-dong. Helen closed her eyes for a moment. Seriously? She turned around and headed back toward the front door.

Ding-dong. Now she was thoroughly annoyed. Who the hell rang someone's doorbell three times within a matter of seconds? Helen yanked the door open, fully prepared to give whoever was standing on the other side a piece of her mind.

Then she saw him, and every bit of wind went out of her sails. A little boy stood on her doorstep. Four years old, perhaps. Certainly no older. His cheeks were bright red, his hair clung damply to his forehead, and one look at him was enough to tell her that he had been running. His chest was still rising and falling far too quickly.

But his face didn't match the rest of him. There was no uncertainty. No embarrassment. Instead, his expression was deadly serious, his eyes so hard and determined that for a moment Helen simply had no idea what to say. The boy didn't even seem to notice her. He was staring at the doorbell as though life and death were being decided right there on her doorstep.

Helen opened her mouth.

Ding-dong.

She blinked.

The boy had just rung the bell again. While she was standing in the open doorway. Helen waited a moment, but he still didn't look up at her.

"Excuse me," she finally said carefully.

"May I interrupt? It looks like you're having an important moment."