The wordcarcassreminds me of Carcassone, Caillou's favorite board game. It also reminds me of Soft Shapes, Caillou's favorite TV show. He loves to watch it in his parrot-colored living room in his parrot-colored house with his parrot-colored parents and sister. His second favorite food besides human suffering is carrot puree, which is what I am blending for him while he watches Soft Shapes. I am his babysitter for the night while his parents are out. Rosie is already asleep upstairs after having her bottle. The carrots are cut in a tube-shaped blender, and then I throw a couple of ice cubes in the slop to cool it down. They melt without incident. I have determined that the puree is smooth to Caillou's specifications, and then I walk it carefully to the living room. "A nice warm bowl of carrot puree for you, mon ami," I say with my meager understanding of French, despite living in Quebec City now. "Please be careful eating it over the carpet." He doesn't say thank you, which I don't care about, but he does sip it carefully so I know that he was listening. He understands the risk of spilling on the carpet and being grounded for 9,541,682 years. "What was your favorite soft shape you saw today?" I ask him. "The ball," he says, still watching the TV. "I liked the soft ball." I nod. "Another word for that shape is sphere. Have you heard the word sphere before?" At first, he doesn't respond. Then, he asks me, "Mikey, why do people hate me?" I feel my eyebrows furrow—it makes me sad that a four year old has to ask this question. "People think I'm annoying, don't they?" he asks. "Oh, Caillou, I'm sorry." I sigh. I'm sorry for him and for this world he lives in where he's trapped as an agent of morality, a model of how not to act. He can't help getting upset at every little thing in his life, much like everyone else in this world. Perhaps that's why people hate him so much—they see in him what they hate about themselves. That's it.