Outside the daycare there hummed a far different tune, one of sirens and radios and microphone static that reverberated all through the night and well into the morning. For days and days after the initial rainfall, reporters and investigators swarmed the site like ants to syrup, all desperately trying to get their fill of the sweet, bloody tragedy before them, yet those closest to the tragedy knew the two sweetest and bloodiest parts lay in the hospital a few blocks away from the daycare: one in the basement, where the corpses were being examined, and one on the sixth floor, where the listless boy in a private room lay.

All tests conducted on the boy came back normal, with not a trace of toxin or poison to be found, yet despite these readings it was abundantly clear that he’d been afflicted with some sort of mental poison, one that rendered him listless and hollow and almost completely unresponsive--save for the occasional bout of humming, which always carried the same tune.

He couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and so, combined with the nature of his arrival there, the boy was treated very gently and gingerly by the hospital staff, though to no avail in evoking a response. In fact, for the first few days he was as stiff and silent as a mannequin, barely moving more than a few centimeters a day unassisted, and he seemed never to close his eyes no matter the hour of the day. Had it not been for the completely normal results of numerous tests and scans, as well as his occasional humming, one could easily diagnose him with brain death.

Among the staff dedicated to his recovery, there was a psychiatrist who’d been assigned to study the boy’s mental state. For the first three days, not a single response was given, yet on the fourth, some progress was made, and for the first time since his discovery, he showed signs of humanity.

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On the fourth day, the psychiatrist brought with her a bag, and when she’d set it on the floor, the contents spilled out, and an apple, an unassumingly average one at that, lit a small spark in the boy’s hollow eyes. The psychiatrist took notice of this, and when she offered it to him, he took it with both hands, carefully, as if it were made of glass, and took a large, shaky, ungraceful bite.

She asked the boy if he liked apples, and as he took another bite, he gave a single slow nod, and in a small, vacant voice said, “Because they are forbidden.”

So then, spurred with confidence, she prodded further, asking him more questions about the daycare, about his origins and experiences, yet to no avail. Once he’d finished the apple, he ceased to speak.

For the rest of the week, the psychiatrist visited him with an apple in her bag, and sure enough, he took each one in the same shaky, careful way and took massive, messy bites. With each apple he ate, she received a response to a single question she’d ask.

She’d learned his name first: Delgen, which he seemingly had to think about before sharing, not so much as if he’d forgotten it, but rather had never known it to begin with, had never been asked for it.

Then she asked what had happened in the daycare, and with greater confidence but not greater volume, he replied, “Wrongs.” He wouldn’t elaborate, even at the prospect of another apple.

So on the next day, she asked him what had happened the night of the tragedy. This time, for the first time, Delgen met her gaze, and held it there, and in a simple voice said, “He didn’t come.”

Again, he didn’t elaborate, and this time she didn’t prod, for the words he’d spoken brought with them a chill that seemed to freeze her tongue, but not her legs, and so she left without a word.