My sister only smirked.
The living room smelled like burnt coffee and the lemon cleaner Mom used before company came over.
A game show kept chattering from the television while I dropped beside my son on the beige carpet. His face was pale around the mouth. One hand pressed against his left side, and every shallow breath ended in a small broken sound.
His glasses sat crooked on his nose. One sneaker had come loose. His smartwatch was half hidden beneath his hoodie sleeve, the one I usually reminded him to charge before school.
“It hurts,” he whispered.
I reached for my phone.
Mom grabbed my wrist, ripped it from my hand, and stepped back with the phone tucked behind her hip.
“Boys fight,” she said again. “You call the police over this and you could ruin your nephew’s future.”
