Nolan nodded slowly. The pink in his ears had faded, replaced by a pale, resolute determination.

He grabbed the bottom hem of his shirt with both hands.

“This shirt,” he said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper.

“Dad didn’t just spill something on it. He tried to throw it away because of what’s inside it.”

He looked at me, his eyes pleading for permission. I had no idea what he meant, but I nodded.

With shaking hands, Nolan pulled the bottom hem up and flipped the fabric outward, exposing the inside of the lower seam to the room.