“Were you doing tricks again?” I asked gently. I wasn’t even mad; I just wanted to know what happened. Howard loves trying to jump the curb, even though I’ve told him a thousand times to wait until he’s older.
“I told you,” Jasper interrupted. “He just lost his balance. No tricks. Just a weird slip on the driveway.”
I just wanted to know what happened.
Howard shifted uncomfortably in the bed. He looked at his dad, then at his cast, then at the floor.
Something was off. I could feel it in my gut, but I didn’t want to start a fight in front of my injured son.
“Well, the important thing is that you’re patched up now,” I said, though my mind was racing.
I stayed by the bed, stroking Howard’s hair while he drifted in and out of sleep. Jasper sat in the corner, staring at his phone.
That evening, a woman in navy scrubs walked in. Her badge read “Charge Nurse.” She was efficient and quiet, checking Howard’s vitals and scribbling on a chart.
I didn’t want to start a fight.
“Honey, you should go home,” Jasper said suddenly. “You have work in the morning. I’ll stay the night.”
“I’m fine. I’ll nap in the chair. I want to be here when he wakes up.”
The nurse glanced at me, then at Jasper, and finally at Howard. As Jasper reached out to adjust the boy’s blanket, Howard flinched.
It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible, but the nurse saw it. I saw her expression shift from professional neutrality to something like concern.
As she finished up and walked toward the door, she brushed past me.
As Jasper reached out to adjust the boy’s blanket, Howard flinched.
Without looking down or slowing her pace, she pressed something into my palm. My fingers closed around it instinctively.
I waited until she left, and Jasper was looking at his phone again. I unfolded the yellow Post-it note.
HE’S LYING. CHECK THE CAMERA AT 3 A.M.
My mouth went dry.
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