A doctor read the intake notes and led us straight back.
I tried to follow, but a social worker stopped me with one gentle hand.
“We have to document this correctly,” she said.
Correctly.
That word hit me harder than I expected.
For months, I had been trying to document the shadow.
Now the thing itself was standing under bright hospital lights.
A nurse placed a hospital wristband around Eli’s wrist.
The EMT gave the timeline.
The officer stood near the intake desk.
The social worker wrote down Eli’s words exactly as he gave them, without smoothing them, without improving them, without making them easier for adults to hear.
I sat in the ER hallway with my hands locked together.
Low voices moved behind the exam room door.
The fluorescent lights buzzed above me.
A paper coffee cup sat on a side table, untouched and cooling.
