“Shit. That was fast!” he says through a mouthful of…cheese crackers? “Um… Mr. Davenport? Hello, I’m…” He shifts a baseball bat to the crook of his elbow where he’s holding a red box of crackers. His arm extends, bringing his hand toward my chest. Marcy said his file indicated he was on the low vision spectrum when he registered. Maybe his depth perception is off. I raise my hand to shake his, but instead he pats my chest. His hand drops lower, and he pokes his fingers at my middle like he’s searching for something, making me wince. Frowning, he looks up. “You got the goods?” “The goods?”
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