My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

Owen shrank back against William.

“It’s okay,” William murmured, wrapping both arms around him. “She just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

The paramedic examined him as gently as possible. Bruises along the forearm. Redness around the wrist. Dirt on his knees. Splinters in one palm. No major wound. No blood source.

She looked up at William, grave. “Sir, whose blood is this?”

Owen’s face was pressed into William’s shoulder now, but his voice came out strangely clear. “I fought back.”

Every adult in the room went still.

William drew away enough to see his son’s face. “What did you say?”

“I fought back,” Owen repeated. His eyes looked too old, drained of ordinary childhood expression, leaving something almost stark behind. “Like you said.”

William’s mind raced, desperate to understand. “Who did you fight, buddy?”

Owen’s lower lip trembled. “Grandma.”

The officer in the doorway stepped forward. “Son, can you tell me what happened?”

Owen stopped speaking entirely. His body locked. He buried his face in William’s shirt and made no sound.