The specialist told me afterward that his leg would need months of rehabilitation, but that children his age often heal with an almost unreasonable determination, and that she expected, in time, a full recovery.

I wrote down every single instruction she gave me, in a small notebook, in a steady hand, because being of use to my son was the one thing I could still do while the rest of my life came apart.

Julian appeared after it was over.

“I’ve already reached out to a nationally known orthopedic consultant,” he announced, in the tone of a man solving a problem with his checkbook.

“The best in the country.

Whatever this costs, I’ll cover all of it.