“The FBI? Like a Special Agent!” The doctor smiled at Bobby. ”So, you see words? Words that tell you things?”
Bobby stared out at College Street, slick and grey, the traffic light at Bathurst spattering red across the wet window. “No, just skeletons, and then things die.”
Eleanor worried her pursestraps, then played at taking notes.
People outside avoided puddles, ran for the streetcar. Bobby watched. No dead people.
“So, how do you feel when you see these . . . ” Dr. Webb hesitated slightly, “these skeletons?”
The boy moved his gaze from the window to the man.
“I feel cold.”