The next few hours blurred into paperwork and hushed conversations. By morning, a hospital social worker had reviewed the footage and documented everything: inconsistent statements, admission of absence, coaching a minor to lie.
At 8 a.m., I walked back into Ethan’s room. Ryan sat in the chair.
“You get some sleep?” he asked.
“I know what really happened,” I said. “And I know you told Ethan to lie.”
Ethan looked terrified. “Dad said—”
“It’s okay,” I told him, taking his hand. “You don’t have to explain anything.” Then to Ryan: “Hallway. Now.”
The door clicked shut behind us.
“I don’t know who’s been filling your head—” he began.
I laughed sharply. “You are. You left him with your girlfriend—someone I didn’t even know existed. She went inside. He tried a trick. He got hurt. And instead of owning it, you made him lie.”
“It was ten minutes!” Ryan hissed. “You’re acting like I abandoned him.”
“You told me you were watching him. And you dragged him into your lie. That’s what matters.”
The social worker appeared. “Sir? We need to speak with you.”
For the first time, Ryan looked unsure.