Michael’s pulse slows down a bit, though Wolfgang’s hands on his keep him from relaxing too much. They’re pressing his hand to their chest, why did he put that there. He can feel their heart thumping underneath their bones. Color rises high in his face until he’s more red than they are. It’s hard to concentrate, even though they’re saying something important.
Tools. Michael looks around. So, the Legos? And—the rest. It’s all inert at the moment, aside from the strange ribbons—strewn near the multicolored towers here and there, looking like any other aged toys you might find in a box of your old things or a second-hand shop. Nothing remarkable. He used to have some of these things.
“I don’t get it,” he admits, feeling dull. “You didn’t want me to see what? Was this my Christmas present or something? ‘Cause I only got you a burrito.”