The room, previously a chaotic mix of dramatic posturing and genuine anxiety, fell into a sudden, profound silence. All eyes, wide with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, locked onto the small figure of Max. The toddler shifted in his oversized armchair, his small hands gripping the velvet arms as if he were about to deliver a state of the union address. He took a tiny, steadying breath, his expression far too serious for a four-year-old.
"I don't really get all the grown-up stuff about Sister Freya," he began, his voice clear and deliberate, "but... this is about the bad people, right? The ones Sister Everly told me to watch out for? She said some grown-ups are like wasps—they look kinda cool from far away, but they'll sting you for no reason."
Everly, abandoning her tragic heroine persona, puffed out her chest and nodded sagely, stroking an imaginary beard.
