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Has someone been feeding the dog? Lyndon asks, coming inside after doing morning chores.

Ummmm, Carter is supposed to. Why?

His food dish is always full. Whoever is feeding him is giving him way too much.

I think of our new foster son, and I am pretty sure he is the overly generous soul, and I say so.

Later in the day, Lyndon asks him. Simple question. No hostility.

Have you been feeding the dog?

Yes.

How much have you been giving him?

Head duck, foot shuffle, ponder the answer… A little bit?

Look up, check adult body language to determine if this is the right answer.

More foot shuffle… A lot?

It’s like this with him. A general air of uncertainty. Saying what seems to be the right answer, or the answer that will be acceptable, or that answer that will keep him out of danger.

Maybe you’d be the same if you had lived the full ten years of your life with constant change and were used to being in trouble a lot and life was full of going here and there and you didn’t understand why you couldn’t stay with your mom who keeps telling you she is going to get better and bring you home and who knows where you might wake up tomorrow.

I think my answer to a lot of life’s questions, if I were ten and all, would be the same.

A little bit a lot.

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