Without looking up, she said, “We have observation cameras in every pediatric room. Audio and video. Go to security at 2:55. Tell them I sent you. Watch Channel 12 at 3 a.m.”
Then she walked away.
At 2:58 a.m., I knocked on the security office door. A weary guard sat in front of a wall of monitors.
“The nurse sent me. Room 412. Channel 12.”
He nodded and pulled up the footage.
Ethan lay asleep. The chair beside him—the one Ryan was supposed to be sitting in—was empty.
The clock flipped to 3:00 a.m.
The door opened. I expected a doctor.
It was Ryan.
And a woman came in behind him.
She shut the door softly.
Ryan still had his coat on. He hadn’t been there with our son.
Ethan stirred. “Dad?”
Ryan pulled the chair close. “Hey, buddy. You doing okay?”
The woman stayed near the wall, arms crossed, watching.
“We need to make sure we’re telling the story the right way,” Ryan said.
My stomach dropped.
“I told everyone I fell,” Ethan replied.
“Right. You were riding your scooter. I was outside. You lost your balance. Freak accident. That’s what we tell Mom.”
“But Dad, I don’t want to lie to Mom.”
My heart cracked.
“We have to,” Ryan snapped quietly. “Your mom can’t know I wasn’t there. She’ll overreact.”