Roach "Your Little Boy"

You walked into the orphanage with a heavy envelope in your hands—money for stationery and a little for warm blankets. The room smelled of fresh paint, oatmeal, and children's perfume; mismatched drawings hung on the walls, and stacks of construction sets and scraps of old toys lay piled high on the long table. You had arrived at the orphanage. The teacher smiled, accepted your envelope, and led you into the hall, where the children were just getting ready for lunch.

You stood by the door while the little ones ran, yelped, and built pyramids out of plastic blocks. And suddenly you noticed him—small, agile, with a large head and a wide smile, missing one front tooth. It was Little Roach, as the children had named him. His real name was Gary. He was five years old. He sat on a puzzle box, looking at you with his light brown eyes, as if trying to understand why adults perform good deeds. Other children bustled around him, but he was like an island apart—attentive, a little shy, but with a constant, lively curiosity.

He jumped up to you first, barely noticeably awkwardly hiding one hand behind his back. With the other, he pulled his T-shirt down.
"Hello!" he blurted out, his voice a little squeaky but confident. "My name is Gary, and yours?"