It took Robin that long to register he wasn’t alone. The boy was probably six or seven, dark tan skin, hair cut short—the boy attacked. Noiselessly, the child barreled out of the darkness with a knife held out in both hands. Robin instinctively pushed backward, but he was already against the rock wall and he barely managed to snap a solid kick into the child’s ribs. If either the knife or the arms holding it had been longer, the tip would have punctured Robin’s chest rather than skid across the floor. The boy grunted, and Robin rolled quick to pin his tiny body down. Eyes wide with terror, the boy was not fighting back so much as flailing. Robin put his hand over the boy’s mouth—if the soldiers above came down to investigate, there was no telling what punishment they’d see fit to give. There’d already been plenty of dead younger than this one, and rushing a soldier with a weapon was death sentence no matter the age.

Eventually the stabhappy boy stopped struggling and went completely limp—not dead, just resigned to die, if he knew what that meant. Robin imagined this boy had already seen more death in the last week than he ever should, had likely lost much or all of his family. Stealing rations, and likely the knife, too. When it seemed safe, Robin asked, “Do you speak English?”

The response was a renewed struggle, which Robin quickly stopped with a firm slap across the boy’s face.

“Stop it. Stop it.” Obviously, he said it twice since the boy didn’t speak English. “What’s your name?”

The boy eventually went limp and stared, blankly, at something in the back of Robin’s skull. This boy didn’t have a clue what was happening to him, or the city, or how to react to anything.

“Alright, listen you. I’m Robin. Robin. That’s my name,” he pointed to himself, and then to the boy’s chest. “What’s your name?”

The boy seemed to understand, and answered, but whatever language he used was full of noises Robin’s brain couldn’t re-create. A few of the strange syllables sounded very much like English profanity.

“That’s your name?” Robin gasped, stifling a laugh. He couldn’t repeat back to a child the vulgarity he’d obviously misheard. “I can’t call you that. How about Stabhappy, that seems to describe you well enough. So listen, Stabhappy, I’m not going to kill you, alright?”

He mimed stabbing the boy in the chest and then shook his hands as if this indicated his peaceful intent. The boy didn’t react well.