“How’s the boy doing?” Miller asked.

“He goes into orthopedic surgery in two hours,” I said.

Miller leaned his shoulder against the painted wall and opened his folder to a single sheet of paper.

“Your father called Precinct Commander Miller at eight fifteen this morning,” Miller said quietly.

“What did Charles tell him?” I asked.

“He reported that the boy tripped over a loose wool runner while carrying his art supplies,” Miller said.

“He asked for the incident log to be closed as an accident at home.”