Doctor Clara Brooks stood by the stainless-steel examination table, her fingers gently parting the damp hair near the crown of Ethan’s head.
She clicked her silver ballpoint pen three times, a sharp, metallic sound that seemed to make Ethan pull his blue zip-up hoodie tighter around his shoulders.
“The swelling is concentrated on the occipital lobe, Mrs. Carter,” Doctor Brooks said, her clinical tone quiet and measured. “We are looking at a mild concussion, but the disorientation is slightly more pronounced than I would expect.”
Ethan sat on the edge of the mattress, his small sneakers dangling three inches above the cold linoleum floor.
He kept his hood pulled low, shadowing his eyes so that only the pale line of his jaw was visible.
“Ethan,” I said, stepping up to the side of the table opposite the doctor. “Can you tell me what you were doing before you fell?”
Ethan did not look up, but his fingers gripped the fabric of his knees, the blue cotton bunching under his knuckles.
“Playing,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the overhead ventilation unit.
