Chapter 2 - THE BLUE TRAYMy name is Mara Bennett.
I had worked at Prairie Children’s Orthopedics in Nebraska for eleven years.
In that time, I had found:
Coins.
Beads.
Crayons.
A Lego sword.
Three popcorn kernels.
One dead beetle.
And once, spectacularly, a folded homework assignment a thirteen-year-old had slid inside a cast because he did not want to turn it in.
A key and a sealed note were new.
Richard tried to leave again.
Security stopped short of physically restraining him until the clinic physician and child-protection team clarified what authority applied.
That detail mattered.
Hospital security is not police.
We were not allowed to imprison parents because we disliked their behavior.
But we could prevent interference with immediate patient care where a child might be medically endangered, and we could call law enforcement.
We did.
Richard demanded an attorney.
Good.
People are allowed attorneys.
Elena stayed with Tommy.
I backed away from the key and note.
Dr. Melissa Grant, our pediatric orthopedist, entered.
She examined the exposed skin.
The room changed the moment she saw the bruises.
“Tommy, does your leg hurt right now?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He pointed near the ankle.
Then calf.
“Anywhere else?”
He looked at Richard.
Dr. Grant noticed.
“Dad, I need you outside for part of the exam.”
“No.”
“It is standard for me to speak privately with older children when there are sensitive medical questions.”
“He’s six.”
“Yes.”
“He doesn’t know anything.”
Tommy flinched.
Dr. Grant looked directly at Richard.
“Outside.”
Security stepped closer.
Richard’s jaw moved.
Then he left.
May you like
Not calmly.
But he left.
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