His attention remained fixed on small objects instead of faces—the pens in my pocket, the edge of the paper on the bed, the loose thread near his sleeve.
Sarah moved quietly toward the supply counter and gave us space.
I kept my voice level.
“Leo, I’m going to ask you something about the mark on your wrist.”
His fingers shifted inside the hoodie pocket.
“Did a spider make that mark?”
Leo shook his head.
There was no hesitation this time.
That answer changed the meaning of nearly everything Greg had said since walking through the ER doors.
The spider bite story had never explained the wrist.
It had never explained the bruises on Leo’s fingers.
It had never explained why a nine-year-old had not eaten since the previous afternoon.
And it certainly had not explained why Greg’s first response to an alarming finding under the child’s skin was not fear, confusion, or a demand for more treatment.
