“Dad,” he whispered, “can I go to sleep without sitting down first?”
Something inside me dropped so fast I felt dizzy.
I crouched in front of him.
“Buddy, what happened?”
His mouth opened.
Then it closed.
“Nothing.”
That word scared me more than a scream.
I reached slowly toward his shoulder, trying to make sure he saw my hand coming.
He flinched anyway.
For one ugly heartbeat, I saw Vanessa’s SUV still in my mind.
I pictured myself running into the street.
I pictured yanking open her door.
I pictured demanding answers while every neighbor on the block watched from behind curtains.
My hands curled before I forced them open again.
Rage would have made a mess.
Documentation could save him.
So I stood, walked to the kitchen counter, picked up my phone, and dialed.
“911, what is your emergency?”
My own voice sounded far away.
“My eight-year-old son was just dropped off by his mother,” I said. “He is in severe pain. He can barely move. I need an ambulance and a police officer at my address immediately.”
