The Quiet Kind Of Kindness
For the next eight Saturdays, the list had sardines.
Theo brought them. He sat with Mr Eichmann while the fox ate. He learned that the fox liked the kind of sardines that came in oil, not in tomato. He learned that Mr Eichmann had named the fox Pim, after a brave dog he had owned forty years ago. He learned that Mr Eichmann talked to the fox in the slow, gentle voice he used for nobody else.
Theo did not tell his mother. He did not tell his friends at school. The secret felt important — not in a heavy way, but in a held way, like a small bird in cupped hands.
In the seventh week, the fox's leg was almost healed. It walked on it now, with only a slight limp.
In the eighth week, the fox did not come out of the storeroom for the sardines.
Theo and Mr Eichmann waited a long time. The dish stayed full.
"He's gone, lad," said Mr Eichmann, quietly. "He's gone home, wherever home is. That's the way it should be."
He picked up the dish.
Theo felt — sad, a little. Not surprised. The whole point had been to mend the fox so the fox could leave. But sad, even so.
"Will he come back?"
"Probably not. Wild things don't usually come back to the place that helped them. Once they're better, they're done with you."
Theo thought about this.
"Is that a sad thing?"
Mr Eichmann thought.
"Not really. It's the right thing. You help, and then you let go. The fox didn't owe me a friendship.