I check my wristwatch for probably the gazillionth time. The tiny radium numbers illuminate under the blanket, indicating that it is still too early to wake up. But my excitement hasn’t allowed me to sleep even a wink all night. I have my fingers crossed; today might be the day! 

A few hours later, I find the warden pacing along the dormitory, flicking a wooden cane in his hands. “I want everybody to be on your best behaviour today,” he tells us. “No hanky-panky business!”

All of us, a dozen kids at various stages of getting ready, nod nervously in agreement. Ezra, my best friend and bed neighbour, is violently squeezing an empty tube of face cream to maybe extract a small dollop of liquid. He is distraught when his attempt is unsuccessful. I pour some of mine in his hands.

“Thank you, Issac,” he tells me, his smile back on his face. 

“No problem, buddy,” I tell him.

Ezra carefully applies the entire cream on his face and gently rubs it across the edges of his arms and elbows. Once done, he puts on a pair of hand-gloves, the ones he skillfully fashioned from an old bedsheet. One has four fingers, and the other, three. 

“Do you think we will get a family today?” he asks me.

“Oh, one hundred percent,” I tell him. “There is no way we won’t. I overheard the warden last evening. A lot of people have come back to Gaza now that the war is over. He’s expecting a full house today!”

“Really?” Ezra’s eyes go big and wide in excitement. 

“Yes, really,” I tell him as I get up from the bed, and he helps me with my crutch. 

***

Ezra and I watch from the broken dorm window as people begin to pour in. The warden wasn’t wrong. It is a full house today. I count multiple different families who come in various permutations and combinations. There are the gregarious husband and wife pair who arrive carrying a basket of oranges. Then there is a family of three- mother and father with a toddler daughter. They have hopeful eyes and keep to themselves. A single mother walks in with three naughty young children in tow.

“Do you think we will go home with any of them?” Ezra asks me. He is still shaken up from the time when a family backed out at the last minute of adopting him after seeing his hands.

“If they are lucky, then yes!” I have to word my sentences carefully around him. I can’t give him any more hope than I gave in the morning. And I can’t take any of it back, either. Hope fills our stomachs when love and food can’t at the State Home Orphanage for War Victims. 

***

It is late into noon. Ezra has spent almost all time playing with the three children of the single mother that came in the morning. The children adore him. He is the big brother that they never had. The woman seems kind. I think Ezra will be really happy in that household. He really needs a win after the previous time’s trauma. 

Soon enough, he comes running to me, all excited and breathless. “I am going home!” he informs me. “I am going to be a big brother!” 

As much as I am happy for him, I also know that this is perhaps goodbye. Ezra has been my mate, brother and confidante, all rolled into one since we were put in this institution. I help him pack the little belongings he has while his mother sorts the paperwork with the warden. 

I hug him goodbye and promise to stay in touch through letters and postcards. 

***

It is almost dusk. Almost all prospective parents have left. Mostly along with newly adopted children. Only five of us are left. We might have a pyjama party with oranges and pretend-hard drinks at midnight when the warden is usually fast asleep. I can’t help but always look at the bright side of things. 

I see a man walk in through the gate. He is big in size and is wearing a suit and a hat. He has a light stubble on his oval face. There is something different about him. The way he walks and carries himself. His demeanour. There is a certain sophistication to him that is unusual in my part of the world. 

He greets the warden with a tipped hat, catching him in an awkward quandary because the latter doesn’t know how to react to that. Nobody has probably ever tipped their hats to the warden. And it shows because he drops the pile of important-looking documents that he is carrying on his desk and rushes to shake hands with the gentleman. They exchange some words that I am not able to comprehend from my vantage point at the window. Soon after, I see the warden escort the gentleman towards our dormitory. 

Seeing them approach, all of us kids quickly tucked our shirts and parted our hair. They enter, and the warden immediately has an announcement to make. 

“This is Mr Abraham. He is a businessman from the city. He has just returned after the war. He is here to adopt. He will be going around and talking to each one of you.”

“Don’t mind me, kids,” says Mr Abraham. His voice is soft, kind and sympathetic. It does not match his physique at all. I like him. “Please carry on what you are doing. I’ll just be going around and talking to each one of you. Hopefully, I can find what I am looking for.”

Soon enough, he is going around and interacting with each one of us. I cannot hear the exact conversation with the other kids, but I see that they are enjoying his company. There is laughter and high-fives all around. I am the last kid that he comes to. 

“Hey, buddy, what’s your name?” Mr Abraham asks me.

“Issac.”

“Oh, interesting name. You know, I had a son just about your age. Twelve. Almost the same height. Noah. Do you want to see his photograph?”

I nod. And he pulls out a crumpled photo from the inside pocket of his coat. It is of a boy with a passing resemblance to me. He is standing on a stage with a medal around his neck.

“This is from his annual day. He won first place in dancing!” Mr Abraham tells me with a twinkle in his eyes. 

“You must be so proud of Noah!” I say, matching his enthusiasm. 

“I am!”

“Where is he now?” I ask, and the instant change in his mood makes me regret that question. How could I be such an insensitive fool? I should have known better. 

“Well, I lost him and his mother in the war,” he informs me, his voice slightly deeper.

“I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” I tell him.

“No, no, it is alright,” he says, instantaneously switching back to his cheerful mood. “I still have his dancing shoes at home. I hope that my future son can wear those and make me proud.”

I smile and nod, but I am crushed inside. He is definitely not going to adopt me. I cannot fulfil his wish with one foot. I have to take this rejection in my stride and hope for a better future soon. There should be more parents coming in tomorrow. I hope. 

Half-an-hour later, I find myself sitting in the warden’s office with Mr Abraham. I am required to sign on a mountain of paperwork. I don’t know how to do my signatures yet, so I just simply write my name in my best handwriting possible. I am being adopted. Mr Abraham chose me. But instead of feeling ecstatic, a dread of anxiety is looming over me. Will Mr Abraham be disappointed when I am not able to put on Noah’s dancing shoes? But then why did he choose me? My crutch and lack of one foot is not invisible. 

He senses my somber mood when I step into his car. As the chauffeur begins driving, Mr Abraham nudges me and asks, “Hey buddy! Are you not happy?”

“Mr Abraham,” I say, as unbeknownst to me a stream of tears comes down from my eyes. “I think you have made a mistake. I won’t be able to fulfil your dream of dancing. I don’t want to disappoint you. Please drop me back and choose somebody else instead.”

“Oh, you can dance alright,” he says cheerily. “Although I will never force you. Only if you wish to.”

“I cannot even if I tried!” I say, crying even louder.

“Why do you say so?”

I point towards the end of my trouser that is lying flat because of the missing foot. 

“Oh, you don’t have anything to worry about,” he says as he pulls up his trousers to reveal a pair of prosthetic legs.