He studied me. “Has anyone else been caring for him?”
“Only his parents.”
He nodded. “We need to do an ultrasound.”
Fear tightened in my chest. “Is he going to be okay?”
“We need to check something first,” he said gently.
The room grew quiet except for the low hum of the machine. The technician moved the probe across Oliver’s tiny abdomen while Dr. Harris watched the screen.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
But his expression grew serious.
“Wait,” he said.
The image froze.
He turned to me slowly. “Has he fallen recently?”
“No,” I said immediately. “He can barely move.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said.
My pulse raced. “What is it?”
He pointed at the screen.
“There’s internal bleeding in the liver.”
My breath caught. “What?”
“It looks like strong pressure was applied to his abdomen.”
My knees weakened. “Pressure?”
“In infants this small, even squeezing too hard can cause damage.”
My mind went blank. “Are you saying… someone hurt him?”
He didn’t answer directly.
But he didn’t need to.
“We’re going to treat this immediately,” he said. “And because of the injury pattern, we’re required to notify child protective services.”
The room spun.
“Protection services?”