Devon was a difficult patient. Eleven years old when his aunt brought him to me. “He hardly ever speaks,” she said. “But he used to, she told me, before the accident.”

There had been a house fire which killed his brother and his parents; only Devon survived. Devon ran to a neighbor for help. He said he smelled smoke and couldn’t wake his family. The fire department concluded that the fire started in Dylan’s room, possibly from matches.

The aunt was the mother’s sister. It had fallen on her to tell Devon the news and, for now, to raise him. “He says he wants to live in a box,” she said. “That’s why we’re here.”

Our early sessions were unproductive. I was new to the trade. I hadn’t learned that asking adolescents questions is the best way to kill all conversation. I had better success when I switched tactics and introduced project work: Legos, jigsaw puzzles, models. Sitting side-by-side, engaged in our tasks, the protective walls he had erected started to dissolve.

I tried indirect questions. “I wonder what we’ll draw today,” instead of “What do you want to draw?” And I set no expectations. We were just two kids making stuff with art supplies, it didn’t matter that one kid had a PhD and one possessed superior crayon dexterity.

Each week when Devon’s aunt dropped him off, I probed for more information. Had he said anything at home? At school? Sessions passed, weeks came and went, they turned into months with no discernible improvement.

Then, one day, we stumbled into a trigger. I had ordered a small colorful picnic table to brighten the room. Devon pointed to the box and looked at me. It was non-verbal but it was something.

“Let’s put it together,” I smiled as  I spread the pieces on the floor. He was absorbed by the parts, and I thought we would have a regular session working together.

As I slid the box to the side, I reflexively uttered a phrase from my childhood, “I call the box.” We used to say it as kids whenever someone on the block ordered something that came in a large box. Devon didn’t respond to what I had, which wasn’t surprising. I assumed it was a generational thing that kids didn’t say anymore.

And then, almost inaudibly, he spoke. “I called the box,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Dev. Did you call it before I did? I didn’t hear you.”

He shook his head. “I called the box,” he said, “before Dylan.”

“I called the box; before Dylan.” He was crying now. Nothing can be as heartbreaking as grief in a child but this felt like an opportunity for him to express himself and to secure his trust.

“You must really miss Dylan,” I coaxed.

His little body shivered as he fought to keep from crying. “I called it first, but they gave it to Dylan.”

I slid a box of tissues across the floor to him. “It’s okay that you were upset about the box,” I reassured him. “I’m sure Dylan knew that you loved him.”

He shook his head defiantly. “It was that night, the bad night.”

Devon had never mentioned anything about the fire. This was going to be hard but therapeutic if he could just keep going.

“I was still mad. After everyone was asleep, I went to Dylan’s room. I set the box on fire.” He looked at me, sobbing. “I didn’t know it could spread.”

And there we stood, his nose sniffling, my head spinning. My patient had confessed to a crime. It was privileged information and he was a minor. But everyone blamed Dylan. An eternity passed in a moment.

When I moved it was to hand-thread one of the leg bolts by hand, then I gave Devon the wrench and watched as he clumsily tightened the nut. For the moment I didn’t want to talk or think. I just wanted to crawl inside the box, my box, the one I’d just called and be alone.

– T. Francis Curran