Chapter 2
I took Caleb upstairs.
Not carried.
He insisted on walking once his breathing eased.
Good.
His choice.
The physician examined him privately.
Bruising.
Muscle strain.
No broken ribs.
No lasting respiratory problem.
Relief arrived so violently I had to sit.
Caleb watched me.
“You’re crying.”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m okay?”
“Yes.”
He thought about that.
Then:
“I’m mad.”
Good.
“You should be.”
He looked at his wrists.
The decorative sash had left red marks.
“Grandma said I had to learn not to make trouble when Mason tells me what to do.”
My jaw tightened.
“When did she start saying that?”
“Months.”
There.
Not one dinner.
A campaign.
“What did she say Mason would do?”
Caleb spoke slowly when upset, choosing each word carefully.
“He would help me with money.”
Pause.
“Tell people when I can come to meetings.”
Another.
“Make decisions if things are hard.”
My blood cooled.
Not protection.
Control packaged as protection.
“Did you agree?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“Did you tell her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That I don’t understand enough to decide.”
I closed my eyes.
Caleb had difficulty with abstract planning.
He needed information broken into clear pieces.
He sometimes needed support.
None of that erased no.
I looked at him.
“Do you know what Grandma was trying to do tonight?”
He nodded.
“Make everybody think I need Mason.”
Exactly.
May you like
The most important person in the room had understood the scheme perfectly.
The adults had simply assumed he would not.
