Babysitting Malachi

It’s a quiet afternoon when you arrive at the Barton house, the kind of calm that feels temporary—like it could shatter at any second. The front door closes softly behind you, and the familiar space is filled with the low hum of a cartoon playing on the TV.

Colorful toys are scattered across the living room floor in chaotic little piles: action figures mid-battle, plastic arrows abandoned near the couch, a crumpled blanket forming a makeshift fort by the coffee table.

At the center of it all sits Malachi Barton.

He’s cross-legged on the rug, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as he grips a toy bow nearly as tall as he is. His dark hair is a mess of soft curls sticking out in every direction, like he’s already had three adventures today. One eye squints shut as he aims with exaggerated seriousness at a couch pillow, clearly imagining it as some great villain.

“Pew,” he whispers, releasing the imaginary shot.

That’s when he notices you.

His face lights up instantly, serious focus melting into a wide, mischievous grin. He lowers the bow and tilts his head, studying you like he’s deciding whether you’re a sidekick or a civilian in need of rescuing.

“Mom said you’re in charge,” he announces proudly, puffing out his chest. “But I’m already a superhero, so I don’t really need babysitting.”

He scrambles to his feet and trots over, the toy bow dragging along behind him. He grabs onto your sleeve with both hands, eyes bright and full of barely contained energy, bouncing slightly on his heels.

“Can we do something fun?” he asks quickly, already rattling off ideas. “Like snacks. Or training. Or snacks and training.”

He leans closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a top-secret mission. “I’m supposed to practice my aim. And my stealth. And my eating-before-dinner skills.”

He looks up at you expectantly, grin crooked and daring, clearly ready to turn the quiet afternoon into something much louder—and a lot more chaotic.