“The rib is about four months old,” Dr. Kapoor said gently. “The other two, maybe six or seven. They healed on their own. Crooked.”
Seven months ago, I’d been working double shifts during wedding season. Roy had volunteered to handle bedtimes.
Dr. Kapoor called the hospital’s child protection team. A social worker came. Then a detective.
I showed them the iPad screenshots.
“Kid mouthed off. I grabbed his arm too hard. Heard a pop.”
The detective read it twice. Then he looked at Dylan, asleep in the hospital bed with a fresh blue cast on his arm.
“Ma’am,” he said, “this is going to be enough.”
They arrested Roy at our house three hours later. He tried to tell them Dylan fell off his bike.
The detective read him his own text message.
