He described to Aurelio, who listened without trying to fix any of it, which was itself a thing the old man had to learn, the strange smallness of the work: how he was relearning, at seventeen and eighteen, things most children absorb without noticing.

That it was allowed to be full.

That a closed door did not necessarily mean a threat behind it.

That when an adult said tell me what you need, it might actually be a real question and not a trap.

He told Aurelio about the food under the pillow, and how ashamed it made him, and how the therapist had told him there was nothing to be ashamed of — that his body had kept him alive with that reflex through years when no one else would, and that it would let the habit go when it finally, truly believed the hunger was over, and not one day before.

“So I’m trying to be patient with myself,” Santiago said.