My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

Old bruises. Not one or two. Several. Faded yellow at the ribs. Greenish marks behind the thigh. Small round scars on the back that could have been from strikes with a narrow object. A healing cut on the shoulder William had never seen. When asked about it, Owen looked to William, then away, and whispered, “I fell.”

The physician’s eyes met William’s over the bed. They both knew the script.

Around 12:40 a.m., a man in his early fifties entered the room carrying a file and wearing the expression of someone who had spent his career learning how not to look shocked too soon. He introduced himself as Dr. Isaac Dicki, child psychologist, consulting for the hospital and occasionally for the county. William knew him from conferences and once from a grant review panel. They were not close, but they knew each other’s work.

Isaac’s face changed when recognition landed. “William.”

William stood so abruptly the chair legs scraped. “Isaac.”

The older man glanced toward Owen and lowered his voice. “I’m sorry we’re meeting this way.”

William nearly laughed from the sheer inadequacy of language. “So am I.”