The waiting room smelled faintly of coffee, dust, and cold air from a vent that hummed too loudly. Fluorescent lights washed everything in a pale, almost hospital white. Folding chairs lined the wall; children in bright T-shirts and too-clean sneakers fidgeted on them while their mothers whispered reminders, smoothed hair, wiped invisible crumbs from faces.
Leo sat near the end of the row, feet not quite touching the floor. His green eyes moved quietly from one corner of the room to the other, not in the restless way of the other kids, but with curiosity.
He wasn't bouncing his leg. He wasn't humming. He wasn't rehearsing his lines under his breath.
He was listening.
A girl near the door recited with loud, flat confidence, "I hate you, you're not my real dad," to no one in particular, her mother nodding along like a coach. A boy in a superhero hoodie kept asking when they would be done. Somewhere behind Leo, a woman laughed too loudly at something on her phone.
