A branch.

It’s fine, Mom, really.” He said it again, that word, fine, the word children use precisely when things are not, and I looked at my mud-caked, torn, scraped-up thirteen-year-old and felt the cold thing in my stomach turn over hard.

Even then, even frightened, I did not lay a hand on him harshly or raise my voice, because whatever had happened, my son was clearly shaken, and the last thing a shaken child needs is a frightened parent making it worse.

I have always tried to be, for Caleb, the steady thing in the room, especially since Mark died, especially on the hard nights.