Then he wasn’t a baby anymore. The boy was walking and discovering his own urgent voice and how words were attached to ideas. The first lesson taught to him was that the world was dangerous and often horrible but he was blessed with a fine sweet life. Good sons needed to remain behind the door that almost never opened, and regardless how unfair this existence might seem, he was told that those same good sons needed to obey every rule.

Disease was the first enemy. Germs rode on fingers and breath, ready to kill what was weak. Other than his parents, the most frequent visitor was the doctor—a man smaller than his parents, dressed in a white gown and white mask and thin gloves that stank of disinfectant. The doctor always smiled, even when he was worried. The smile showed in the watchful eyes and musical voice. Every examination began with the question, “How do you feel today, Diamond?” Diamond felt the same every day, but adults never believed that answer. So he claimed he was better here and worse there. The doctor nodded, carefully writing down each lie, and he took his patient’s temperature and listened to the malformed heart and slow lungs, and he might measure a hand and short arm, or he would put a long leg into the air, studying the arched foot and stubby, nearly useless toes. Nothing important would change between visits, but at least the doctor felt certain of that before he gathered up his tools and wished his patient well, locking the great door behind him.

Diamond’s parents always waited in the hallway, and the boy always jumped off the bed, putting an ear to the heavy wood, listening to three adults using quiet, serious voices. This was how he learned that children born tiny usually died. His modest fever was an old problem, but at least his breathing and pulse didn’t seem any worse. And he was managing to grow, though slowly. Sluggish growth was another sure sign of weakness, like his odd skin and the narrow bones. But at least the quarantine was working, and the doctor congratulated his parents for their vigilance. Even the best people sometimes had odd babies, he reminded them. The Creators’ hands were at work, and who could say why? Their son was surviving and seemed content enough despite his infirmities. There were fine reasons to celebrate. And if Diamond found the strength, he could someday visit other rooms inside the house, and should he become an adult—unlikely as that seemed—he might risk little journeys into the open air, feeding his soul with the beauty and perfection of the world.

The boy grew a little older and a little taller, and people came to visit the house—friends and neighbors wanting to wish the old couple well, and if possible, catch a glimpse of their remarkable, doomed child. Some spoke about the Creators and what was wanted for this boy. Sometimes they stood outside his door, reciting ancient words that might or might not bring blessings to the suffering. The best friends let his parents speak about the burdens and joys that came with sharing their lives with this small quiet gift of a child. Those good people were most likely to meet Diamond. If they were free of sniffles and fevers, and if they washed their hands and faces and dressed properly and touched nothing, they were allowed inside his room, if only for a very brief visit.

One lady was especially nice.

“Diamond,” she said. She always said his name lovingly. “It is so good to see you,” she said, her eyes smiling above the mask. “What have you been doing today?”

Unlike every other visitor, she acted patient, remaining quiet while the boy named his toys and told their life stories while explaining the furious little games that he had invented for himself.

The woman was younger than his parents, but she had two boys of her own. Diamond never asked about anyone’s children. There was still too much baby inside him, and even though he was curious, he couldn’t find the best words. But he listened intently when she mentioned her youngest son, how smart and special he was, and once, in an offhand fashion, she suggested that the two of them should meet and play games together.

That it would never happen. But being so young, Diamond accepted his solitude just as he knew that tomorrow or the next day some horrible sickness would find him, and his scrawny weak body would perish. That was the way of the world, and that was the Creators’ will, and in the meantime he loved his toys and adored his parents, and each day had its little pleasures and trusted routines—a happy creature by nature, and why should Diamond question any portion of his great little life?

One day the young mother came to the house and spoke to the boy for a pleasant while and then left again. She shut the door but neglected to lock it, and Diamond sat on the floor and played with soldiers. A hand knocked lightly before trying the heavy brass latch. Then the door swung inward and a stranger entered. The stranger didn’t wear any mask or gloves, or for that matter, any kind of smile. He was the lady’s older son—a very big boy pulled into the room by curiosity. Saying nothing, he watched the toddler set down a block and a wooden soldier and then stand up, remaining where he was. The large boy studied Diamond’s ugly long legs and that wrong-shaped face with the tiny nose and those odd pale eyes and the teeth that were too white to be real.

Diamond said, “Hello.”

With a dismissive sneer, the stranger said, “You don’t sound right either.”

The little boy decided to say nothing.

“You aren’t sick,” the stranger said. “That’s just a story, isn’t it? I know what you really are. You’re some kind of monster.”

Diamond shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wishing this person would leave.

Then the stranger came close, and when Diamond backed away, the big boy said, “Don’t. Stay where you are. I mean it.”

The boy’s voice was angry, and it was happy. He sounded both ways at once, unlikely as that seemed. And he was smiling now, except it wasn’t a normal smile.

“Guess what I’m going to do,” the stranger said. “Guess.”

Diamond said nothing and did nothing.

“All right, I’ll show you.” Then he reached into a pocket riding his trouser leg, pulling out a long bright knife, and he drove the blade into Diamond’s belly, watching the tiny boy squirm and bleed, using a quiet happy voice when he told him, “This is what you do with monsters. You kill them.”

After that day, people were forbidden to see Diamond, and very few friends visited the house anymore. The only other guest was the doctor, but there were fewer examinations after the stabbing. The boy didn’t seem to require the same exhaustive care. And the doctor used a new voice with the parents, hard and skeptical and sometimes loud. There was no good explanation for these phenomena, he warned. He was doing quite a lot of research, and certain old writings mentioned strange births and ancient children displaying the occasional odd power. But he doubted that his patient was like anyone ever born before.

One day, the doctor demanded to be left alone with his patient. That final examination lasted a long while. Little knives and steel hooks were involved, as well as gruff warnings to be quiet, and the tests might have continued all day if Father hadn’t come through the door.

Stepping away from the bed, the doctor pulled off one his gloves.

“What are you doing?” Father asked.

“What I should have done hundreds of days ago,” said the doctor. Then he put the surgical tools back into their case, and in front of Diamond, he warned that disease might kill eventually the boy, but that wasn’t the worst problem. What his parents needed to fear, honestly and with all of their heart, were the mysteries wrapped around the creature living in their midst.

Mother stood beside Father now, her hands wrestling with one another.

“Are you all right?” she asked Diamond.