“Johnny,” I whispered, my finger hovering just above the mark. “How did you get this?”
He did not look at me, his eyes fixed on the glove compartment.
The bruise was fresh, the edges still a faint pink. I pressed my thumb against the side of his arm, my heart skipping a beat as I realized he had not been playing near any low tables yesterday.
I touched the small blue mark on my son’s arm in the dim car light.
On Thursday morning at half past six, Johnny was still under his covers, curled into a tight ball against the wall. When I reached in to pull back the heavy quilt, his entire body was trembling, a rhythmic shudder that vibrated through the mattress.
“Time to get up, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice soft.
He pulled the satin edge of his blue blanket over his face, burying himself deeper into the dark corner of the bed. I tried to gently slide my hands under his arms to lift him, but he stiffened, locking his knees and tucking his chin tightly to his chest.
“No,” he whispered from beneath the fabric. “No school.”
I sat on the edge of the mattress, twisting my silver wedding ring round and round my finger until the skin turned red. The room was cold, and the old iron radiator under the window gave a sudden, loud clank that made Johnny flinch.
I walked down the hallway to the kitchen, where the old refrigerator hummed its steady, low note in the corner. On the side of the refrigerator, the weekly meal chart on yellow paper hung by a magnet, showing Thursday’s lunch as chicken soup and crackers. I knew Johnny would not eat a bite of it.
I picked up my phone and dialed the billing office, my hand slick against the plastic case.
My supervisor, Brenda, answered on the second ring, her voice already sharp with the morning rush of incoming patient claims.
“Brenda, honestly, I have a family emergency this morning,” I said, my finger tracing a groove in the laminate countertop. “I am going to be late.”
