The next thing Kolbe knew there was loud alarm from the round silver clock that stood stoutly on the dark stained desk. Everyone rose quickly and began to stretch their limbs. At least he wasn’t the only one who had gotten stiff from sitting there that long. Jared yelled out who was in charge of which child and sent them all outside. He met Kolbe’s eyes.
     “Just try to keep your eyes open for anyone who might need an extra hand. Margaret will help you.”
     Kolbe inhaled, thrust his hands in his pockets and followed all of the workers outside into the bright morning sun with his sauntering stride. He took one of his hands out of his pockets and held it up to his brow, as the light grew painful, and cringed at the noise of the buses as they stopped with shrieks and screams. In ten seconds the playground was full of children, some in wheelchairs, some walking perfectly fine, and others on their feet with a little help from one of the workers. He didn’t know what to do. Everything had just gotten so chaotic and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to run back inside or just sit down. Margaret introduced him to one of the little boys. He was African American, and very small and thin.  His eyes were solemn and alert but his body was limp in his wheelchair.
      Kolbe looked at him quickly with eyebrows knit, but then looked away and watched Margaret. Unconsciously he was relying on her emotionally. She was something familiar to him in that world of complete difference, something that he could hold on to.
     Kolbe knew why he couldn’t look at the boy. There was too much hindered intelligence and captivity in his eyes. Captivity. Restraint. Helplessness. Slavery. In his own way he had felt these things before. He had felt slavery especially, not to another being, but to himself.
     “This is Matteo,” Margaret told him. She turned to the boy. “Matteo, Kolbe’s my friend, he wanted to meet all of you today.” She grasped the small boy’s hand. “Matteo doesn’t talk Kolbe,” she whispered, “but I’m sure he’s glad that you came.”
     Kolbe looked straight into her eyes and wondered at the connection that Margaret seemed to have with these kids, some kind of inner connection. And yet, while he stood by the poor helpless form of this boy he felt sorrow that he had never experienced before. It scared him. He couldn’t control it; it was something beyond his regular emotions. 
     “Come on,” Margaret told him, “I want you to meet Alyssa. She is so beautiful.” She turned and saluted to Matteo. “See you later, okay?”
     They walked over across the field through all of the children who were playing and laughing and jumping up and down. Some were running, others rolling in the grass, some sitting alone, quietly playing in the stones or sand, some in confined wheelchairs happy just to let the suns rays touch their face and warm them. Kolbe felt like there were hundreds. Margaret glanced up at him curiously.
     “Do you love them yet?”
     Kolbe couldn’t answer. He didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t know what she wanted him to answer. He remained silent.
     “Matteo is 19 years old...” She said quietly. “He will be 20 in a few weeks.”
     Kolbe turned his head and looked at her. “He is…so small, that…”
     “Yes, I know. I feel like he must get annoyed with the people who act as if he is a baby and call him all kinds of funny terms of endearment and stuff. I’m sure what he wants the most is to be treated like a regular 19 year old.”
     Kolbe still didn’t know what to say. The 19 year old in a 6 year olds body was disturbing to him. Margaret seemed to talk about it so easily. Why didn’t she feel uncomfortable?
     Margaret knew what it was like on the first day; she had been somewhat the same. She said no more of Matteo. Soon she stopped at the wheelchair of another little African American, this time a girl.
     “Alyssa loves to do rhythms,” she told Kolbe. “I’ll show you.” She knelt down and gave Alyssa her hand.
     The girl grasped it and began to pound it onto her tray. Tap, tap, tap. Alyssa kept a steady beat. Then Margaret began to sing.
     “John, Jacob, Jingleheimer, Schmidt,” she began, “His name is my name, too! Whenever we go out, the people always shout, there goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt! Da da da da da da da da.”
     Alyssa listened for a second and then hummed along and kept the rhythm with Margaret’s hand.  Every time Margaret sang the ending da da da’s Alyssa would laugh with a huge grin on her face. Throughout the song she would hold her breath just waiting for the end, and then she would get just as excited as before. Most of the time she would sing along, although you could barley understand her blurred speech, she could carry the tune perfectly. Whenever Margaret stopped, Alyssa would begin the beat again with her hand and Margaret respond by singing once more.
     Kolbe watched the girl, confused. She had her own way of communicating what she wanted, but it was such a different and new way. It intrigued him that even though she could not speak she could get across to you what it was that she wanted, simply by tapping your hand on the tray.
    Then Margaret took him by the arm and led him to the edge of the playground and sat him down in the grass. Next to him was a little boy. He was frowning and his eyes were dull.
     “This is Gerry.” She rubbed the boys head.
     Gerry bent from her touch with a groan.
     Kolbe looked up at her.
      “We think he is abused at home,” she said brokenly, barely above a whisper. “He doesn’t usually let anyone touch him without a groan or some kind of fearful noise.”
     Kolbe turned and watched the little boy. He was so unresponsive.
      Margaret picked up a ball and sat down next to Kolbe. “But, this is what we like to do, isn’t Gerry? Let’s show Kolbe how we play ball.”
     Gerry sat still and as the ball hit his hands, he straightened and felt it’s smooth surface. Then he threw it back.
      Margaret grinned. “He never used to do this. They told me that they had never gotten any kind of response from him, ever since he had started coming to the camp. I have worked on this with him for a week now. I think he finally understands it. Huh? Isn’t it fun Gerry?” She bent and kissed the little boys head.
    Gerry looked up at her, and even though his eyes couldn’t focus on her face, he smiled slightly and Kolbe saw that in that instant the boy’s eyes were clear.
     Margaret smiled back sweetly. “Gerry can you say ball?” she handed the object to him.
     He was silent and felt its surface again.
     She nodded. “Ball.” With a sigh she turned to Kolbe. “It’s hard. It will take him a long time to learn to speak.”
     Kolbe couldn’t help but wonder at Margaret’s patience and heartfelt love for these children that were not even hers. He began to feel like he was getting to know her through this experience....