31 JULIE CADMAN-KIM Iron Hans • hy is that man screaming?” my son asks, stopping midstride. He is almost five, and prone to anxiety. “He doesn’t know the difference between real and pretend,” I tell him. The man is facing the plate-glass window of the new Whole Foods across the street. He’s doubled over nearly in two, crying like he learned his mother was murdered. Crying like he learned he’d murdered his own mother. “Why’d you leave me alone?” he screams. His shoulders are covered in a sodden gray blanket, his feet bare even though it’s February. “I told you I would do it. I told you.” “Is he talking to us?” my son asks. The sky, gray as the man’s blanket, has been heavy and low for what seems like years. “No,” I say. An attractive young couple walks past the man, stepping into the street to avoid him. “Let me out!” the man pleads to his reflection. “Why did you leave me alone in here?” My son’s words are careful. “I think I know him.” “You’ve seen that man before?” I ask. My son nods. “In our house,” he says. “That man has never been in our house,” I say, but my mouth has gone dry and my palms are wet. There is something familiar about the hunch of the man’s shoulders. “He has too,” my son says. He steps behind me and peers around my legs at the man. “That’s not true,” I say, too sharply. “It is true. He comes when you’re asleep. He opens the window and climbs into my room.” Across the street, the man stops howling. He stands up straight, and the blanket falls from his shoulders. He looks at my son; something w 32 passes between them. The man holds up a hand covered in sores. He waves, then beckons. My son’s eyes are clear and bright. “His hands are made of metal,” he breathes. “Look—they’re rusty.” I look. And they are. “He’s crying because he wants his real hands back,” my son says. I imagine the man’s hands are made of iron. He is a prince held captive by a spell, a curse. He was a little boy once, just like mine. Maybe, together, we can set him free. I look down at my son. “We can’t give him his hands back,” I say. “We don’t know where they are.” My son returns the man’s wave. “When he comes to my window tonight, I’ll give him mine. Then he won’t have to scream anymore.” ...