Your stomach drops.
You move closer and carefully lift the gown. The bruise is wider than you first thought, reaching toward his back. There is another, smaller mark near his ribs. Old enough to have faded, recent enough to still exist.
You stop breathing for a moment.
Because Nico fell last month while running through the courtyard at home, and everyone said children bruise easily. Because two weeks ago a nurse told you some medications make the skin more sensitive. Because when fear enters a family, every explanation that delays terror begins to look like mercy.
Now, all at once, those explanations feel like curtains.
You press the call button.
When the nurse returns, she is flustered and apologetic, ready to reassure, but the moment you pull back the gown and say, “What is this?” her whole posture changes. She comes closer, leans in, and for an instant her eyes flicker with something like alarm before professionalism seals it away.
“That could be from several things,” she says quickly.
“Such as?”
She hesitates. “Fragile capillaries. Positioning. Prior trauma. Children this sick…”
