My father pointed toward the wooden frame.
“Oliver wanted to help me. He invented a game where we’d learn to do difficult things together.”
He explained that the fabric bands were part of a homemade practice device. They gently held the forearms in position while leaving the fingers free to work.
At first, Oliver used them to practice writing with his weaker hand after struggling with certain movements.
My father practiced alongside him.
They called it their secret workshop.
But something had gone terribly wrong.
Recently, Oliver had grown frightened of the locked room.
He hated being told that he had to finish the exercises before they could leave.
He had cried, but my father, overwhelmed by his own fears, had failed to understand how distressing it had become.
“I thought I was teaching him perseverance,” my father sobbed. “I didn’t realize he felt trapped.”
One officer gently examined the equipment while the other asked my father several questions.
