“On my way back.

I slipped down the bank.

It’s fine.” And he immediately moved to head past me toward the stairs, his shoulders hunched, his whole body language that of a boy desperate to get out of the light and out of my sight.

I stepped in front of him.

Something about the story did not fit, would not lie flat.

“Your sleeve is torn,” I said.

“You don’t tear a sleeve slipping down a muddy bank.” “I slipped and caught it on something.