The girl swaying on the swing wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t know how he could tell, but something about the way her weight tugged on the cords holding her up also tugged at the edges of his wooden heart. Had he been able to talk to her, he would have asked her what was wrong, and listened to her talk as her tears evaporated into the autumn wind. But he couldn’t talk, for he had to mouth, and he couldn’t listen, for he had no ears, and so all he could do was swing her gently on the swing. From where he stood, he could see her father drunkenly stumbling around, and he wished desperately that he was able to tell her to stop swinging and run far, far away. He tried to whisper a warning into her ear as the wind shook the tips of his fingers, but the crying girl did not understand or respond.