The Stillest Things in the Room

Macey's toy room was a disaster of the best kind.

Crayons rolled across the rug. Puzzle pieces hid under beanbags. A plastic castle sat sideways against the wall, its drawbridge permanently down.

And somewhere in all that mess, four boy dolls were very much alive.

Bonnie sat on top of a turned-over bucket, flipping a bottlecap between his fingers. Skylar leaned against a rolled-up poster, arms crossed, looking unbothered. Eliot picked at a loose thread on his sneaker.

And then there was Jude.

Jude stood near the crayon pile, his long brown hair falling in tangled waves past his shoulders — streaked with blue paint, yellow paint, a little bit of green. His one blue eye and one brown eye scanned the room slowly. Paint smudges crossed his cheeks. His shirt was more paint than fabric at this point.

"You've got something in your hair," Bonnie said.

Jude didn't even flinch. "I know."

Scissors in the Air

Bonnie was still flipping the bottlecap when the door creaked.

Not Macey's door. The small door — the one built into the baseboard on the far wall, painted the same cream color as everything else, so easy to miss that nobody ever noticed it.

It swung open.

Three dolls stepped through. Then a fourth.

The first one, a girl doll with neat box braids and a tiny apron, held a pair of silver scissors in one hand. She was already scanning the room like she had a checklist.

"There they are," she said.

Her name was Gabby. Behind her came Holden — a boy doll with a crisp collar and a comb tucked behind his ear — and then Ian, another boy doll, carrying a little spray bottle filled with water.

Last came River, who had a side-swept bob and a measuring tape draped around the neck like a scarf.

Gabby pointed her scissors straight at Jude.

"You," she said. "First."

Jude's mismatched eyes went wide. He took one slow step backward.

"Absolutely not."