“Mommy…” He did not scream.

He did not call for a nurse.

He did nothing that might reach his father down the hall.

He only pressed his forehead to the edge of the mattress and wept in silent, shaking relief — a self-control no adult in that family had ever shown him, learned in a house that had given him far too many reasons to practice it.

Adaira, feeling the warmth of his forehead against her arm and unable to lift a hand to touch his hair, understood in that moment the full, terrible size of what her son was doing.

He was eight years old.