Richard said firmly, "We'll take him to the clinic. They'll know what to do."
The first thing they did to Steven was to talk to him. The psychiatrist made him lie down on a foam rubber couch, kiddies' model, with the Happy Clown motif on the slip-cover, and said with a beaming face, "Now, Stevie, what seems to be the trouble?"
The boy turned his head away from the psychiatrist's shining teeth and said, "My name's not Stevie. It's Steven." He was a thin little boy, rather undersized. The baby fat had melted away fast when he began to be exposed to kiddie-garden. He had dark hair and big eyes and an uncommonly precise way of speaking for a child of five.
The psychiatrist said, "Oh, but we're going to be friends, Stevie, and friends always use nicknames, don't they? My name's William, but everybody calls me Willie. You can call me Uncle Willie."
The boy said politely, "I'd rather not, please."
The doctor was undismayed. "I want to help you. You believe that, don't you, Stevie?"
The child said, "Steven. Do I have to lie down?"
The doctor said agreeably, "It's more usual to lie down, but you may sit up if you want to. Why don't you like kiddie-garden, Steven?"
The boy sat up and regarded him warily. The doctor had a kind face, a really kind face in spite of all those shining teeth, and Steven was only five years old, after all, and there was nobody to talk to, and he was desperately unhappy. Perhaps.... He said, "You'll tell them."