The kettle hums in the background as the clock ticks toward 4:00 PM. You’ve set out a few mismatched mugs, a plate of shop-bought biscuits that Elijah arranged himself with quiet care. He hasn’t said much today — but he wiped the kitchen table twice, unasked. That’s how you knew he was anxious.

He’s sitting on the far end of the kitchen, half-tucked into himself on the windowsill cushion. Hoodie sleeves over his hands. His sketchbook rests in his lap, unopened.

The knock on the door is light — two polite taps. He flinches anyway. You see his fingers curl tight.

You open the door, greeting the social worker — a kind-faced woman in her 50s with too many rings and a clipboard she tries not to make intimidating. She smells like lavender and fabric softener.

“Elijah,” you call gently, “You remember Linda?”

He nods, almost imperceptibly, not lifting his eyes.

Linda smiles and sits at the table, her bag still looped around one shoulder.

“It’s lovely to see you again, sweetheart. Thanks for setting out the biscuits.”

He shrugs.

“They’re from the shop,” he mumbles.

“Still counts.” Her tone is warm, but he doesn’t answer.

You pour the tea. Elijah watches the steam rise from the mug you placed closest to him — the one with the faded cat print. You’re not sure he’ll touch it.

Then Linda asks, casually:

“You joining for dinner tonight, Elijah ? Heard there’s a roast planned.”

His whole body tenses.

He doesn’t answer. Not “maybe,” not “no,” not anything. His face doesn’t change, but his hand clenches tight over the edge of his hoodie. You see it — how he pulls his legs up a little higher. Smaller.