“Sir, officers are en route. Do not attempt to intervene physically when you arrive. Stay in your vehicle if it is unsafe.”
I said yes because it was the easiest word to say, and because there was no way to explain what a useless instruction felt like then.
By the time I turned onto our street, two patrol cars were already there, lights flashing silently against the houses and parked sedans.
Derek’s truck was half on the curb. Our front door hung open. One of the officers reached my car before I fully stopped.
“Are you the father?” he asked, and when I nodded, his hand pressed lightly against my chest before I could run past him.
My mouth opened, but no words came out at first. I could see movement in the doorway, uniforms, Derek’s shoulders, Noah’s small blue shirt.
“Your son is conscious,” the officer said. “Stay with me. Paramedics are looking at him now.”
Conscious. He said it like it should help, and maybe it did, but only enough to keep my knees from giving out.
I pushed past the officer anyway when they let me, because Noah was on the living room couch, and his face found mine immediately.
He did not cry louder when he saw me. That was somehow worse. He just reached with his good arm and made a small sound.
I dropped beside him so fast I almost hit the table. His cheeks were wet. His lower lip trembled once, then held still.
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