Page 38 of Bred By the Minotaur
“Be gentle with it,” I tell him, mimicking how I use the stylus. With great care, Milo draws a circle on the screen and lets out a pleased giggle. He experiments with it some more, drawing doodles that, shockingly, resemble the objects they’re supposed to be.
“You can even change the colors, too,” I tell him, using the stylus to select a different brush and palette. “Here, now it’s blue.”
He draws a squiggle, and his mouth forms a perfect O.
“Wow,” he says with great reverence as he gives the stylus back. “I want one.”
“Maybe someday.”
We pull out his coloring books and notepads and sit side by side at the table, Milo drawing while I work. We’re both silent for nearly an entire hour, focused as we are, and it’s not until I glance at him from the side of my eye that I see for the first time what I must look like from the outside: hunched over my art, shoulders at an angle that’s probably not good for me, focused entirely and completely on the page. He’s drawn the same character over and over again, improving the shape and colors a little each time he repeats the drawing.
“Who is that?” I ask, and my question startles him out of his focus. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your flow.”
He shakes his head and looks down at the drawing. “This is Darla as Spiderman’s cat.” Once he says it, I can kind of see it: a cat wearing a red and black spider outfit.
His eyes dart over to the screen of my tablet, where I’ve been drawing a tree that will become the corner of the advertisement. He points at it. “You drew that?”
“Yep.”
“That’s really good.” He gazes down at his own drawing. “Mine’s ugly, though.”
“Do you want feedback?” I ask.
His brow just furrows in confusion. “I don’t think it’s time for Darla’s dinner yet.”
I laugh, and this makes him frown even deeper. “No, no. I’m asking if you want advice. Suggestions for how to make it look the way you want.”
“Oh.” He puzzles for a moment. “Okay.”
I open a new canvas on my tablet and start doodling a cat. I point out the shape of the head, the location of the legs relative to the body, how perspective distorts them. I’m not sure how much of it he understands, but afterward, Milo returns to drawing his cat with renewed vigor.
After cooking him dinner and feeding Darla, all of the little boy’s limited energy has drained out of him, and I get him to bed just before he passes out cold. I don’t think I could get him there alone.
I’m tired but not exhausted, and there’s a pleasant, bubbly feeling in my body that I don’t recognize as I head down the single block between the houses to bring Sandra the leftovers.
“You’re late,” she grumps, and I feel bad for not bringing dinner sooner.
“Sorry. It took a while for Milo to go down.” I set the baby monitor on the table so we can both hear the little minotaur’s breaths back at the house.
“Hank doesn’t mind?” she asks.
“No. And I’ll know as soon as he wakes up.”
“I’m surprised you agreed to watch him.”
I purse my lips. What I’m doing—associating so openly with Hank—feels risky. I don’t know how DreamTogether might find out, and still, I worry. But the risk feels worth it when I get to spend time with Milo and make Hank’s life easier.
“He has a nice house,” is all I can think to say. “And Milo... he’s a really good kid.” I sit down on the couch and lean back into the soft cushion. “Pretty amazing at art already. He loves it.”
“A chip off the old block.” Sandra finishes her bite of food and glances at me from the corner of her eye. “I’m surprised you got so involved.”
“I didn’t have a choice. That lady Janelle had no idea what she was doing, taking care of Milo.”
My sister arches a brow. “And you do?”
I feel embarrassed heat rush into my face. She’s right, really. I have no experience with kids at all. But being with that little minotaur boy feels natural, like I don’t even have to try.
“I don’t know,” I say, throwing up my hands. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”
