M.K.
I had never seen this bottle before in my life. Tommy did not have any friends with those initials, and Lauren did not buy secondhand gear.
I looked back toward the living room, where my son was still standing by the window, too stiff to move, his small shoulders hunched against a pain he would not name.
My fingers traced the cold metal of the unfamiliar blue thermos, and my stomach tightened.
I set the heavy blue container on the kitchen counter, the metal making a dull clink against the laminate. I walked back into the living room where Tommy still stood near the television, his arms locked straight down at his sides.
“Tommy, look at me,” I said.
He kept his eyes on the carpet, his small chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths. He was chewing on the edge of his thumb, his fingernail already worn down to the pink skin.
“Let me see your stomach,” I said, stepping closer. “Just lift up your shirt for a second.”
