Page 58 of Joker

“Strange how?”

“Like you’re waiting for someone to tell you you’re doing it wrong.”

That hits too close.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to.

She nods once like she already knows. “You’re not,” she adds.

The simplicity of it nearly undoes me.

I take a slow sip of my coffee instead of responding, letting the warmth ground me while I try to recalibrate around something that feels…safe.

Lexi shifts in her chair and slides off it without warning, dragging Bunny and the dinosaur with her. She toddles over to the corner where a small pile of toys has appeared, just some blocks, a few stuffed animals, a couple of books. Then she drops down onto the floor like she’s been doing it here forever.

She doesn’t look back at me.

That should worry me. It doesn’t.

Because she isn’t wandering. She isn’t uncertain. She’s just…playing.

I watch her carefully, waiting for the moment where she realizes she’s in a new place and panics. It doesn’t come.

Instead, a little boy wanders in behind Mac, rubbing his eyes and clutching a toy truck in one hand.

He can’t be more than two.

Mac looks down at him. “Morning, Jason.”

Jason grunts something that might be a greeting, then spots Lexi on the floor. He stops. Stares. Then slowly walks over and sits across from her without saying a word.

Lexi looks up. Looks at him. Then holds up her dinosaur like she’s offering a trade.

Jason considers it. Then sets his truck between them.

Deal made.

I blink.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No fear. No clinging.

Lexi leans forward, grabs the truck, and starts pushing it across the floor. Jason picks up the dinosaur. Bunny stays tucked against Lexi’s side, still important, still present, but not the only thing anchoring her anymore.

My throat tightens.

I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect her to adjust this quickly. I didn’t expect her to feel safe enough to engage with another child without checking back in with me every five seconds.

Relief floods me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.

And right behind it—

Emotion. Sharp. Overwhelming.

Because this means something. It means she’s breathing too. It means whatever tension she’s been carrying is finally loosening enough for her to be a kid again. It means I got her out in time.

I press my fingers into the side of my mug and look down before anyone can see too much on my face.