He shrank back, his shoulders bunching up toward his ears as he took two quick steps away from me. He crossed his arms tightly over his middle, clutching his ribs as if he were trying to hold himself together.
“No,” he whispered. “It does not hurt.”
“You cannot sit down, Tommy,” I said, rubbing my left temple where a sharp ache was beginning to pulse. “Something is wrong.”
“I am just tired,” he said, his voice barely reaching my ears. “I want to stand up for a while.”
“People do not stand up because they are tired,” I said.
I reached out to gently touch his shoulder, but he flinched so hard his foot caught on the edge of the rug. He stumbled, his face turning the color of dry paper as he gasped, a tiny, sharp sound of pure physical distress.
He did not let me touch him, and he did not lower his arms from his chest.
I went back into the kitchen and picked up my phone, my fingers cold against the glass screen. I dialed my mother’s number, needing a voice that did not belong to the custody dispute.
