Ellie didn’t.
She sat down.
Her knees seemed to give way more than bend.
The next hour moved with the strange, stretched-out rhythm hospitals have, where every minute feels enormous and yet entire conversations vanish into a blur.
Mason was examined carefully.
The bruise was documented.
Questions were asked separately.
I repeated the timeline until I could hear the sequence in my sleep.
2:16 p.m.
Thomas handed me the diaper bag.
Thomas told me not to remove the onesie.
Mason began screaming after his parents left.
He refused the bottle.
His abdomen felt stiff and swollen.
I opened the snaps.
I saw the bruising and four darker marks.
I drove him directly to the emergency department.
Thomas called.
He asked why I had brought Mason there.
He told me I was not supposed to remove the onesie.
He told me not to tell the hospital anything else.
Facts can sound cold when spoken one after another.
