I noticed the grip before I noticed the swelling.
Greg had one hand wrapped around the boy’s wrist, not exactly carrying him and not exactly guiding him. He was pulling him forward with the impatient force of someone trying to finish an errand.
Leo stumbled once but caught himself without complaining.
Greg barely looked down.
“Spider bite,” he said. “Give him a Z-Pak. I work in three hours.”
No hello.
No question about whether the child was all right.
No fear in his voice.
Just a diagnosis he had already chosen and a prescription he expected us to provide.
The boy’s name was Leo.
He was nine years old.
When the registration questions reached his date of birth, Greg stared at the form longer than he should have.
He couldn’t remember it.
“My wife handles that paperwork garbage.”
He said it like Leo’s birthday belonged in the same category as utility bills and junk mail.
