“Does your back hurt?” I asked.
He did not answer, his eyes fixed on the baseboard across the room.
“Did something happen at your mom’s house?” I asked.
He bit his lower lip, his breathing turning ragged.
“Mom gets mad if I say things,” he whispered.
“I am your father,” I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “You can tell me anything. We can call the doctor, or we can get some help.”
Tommy’s eyes widened, and he looked up at me with sudden, sharp panic.
“No,” he said, his voice rising. “Do not call anyone. Please.”
“We have to figure out why you are in pain,” I said.
“Mom said if people come, they will take me away,” he said, his face twisting as he struggled to keep his voice quiet. “She said they put kids in places with locks.”
“Nobody is going to take you away,” I said, though the words felt hollow in my throat.
He closed his eyes tightly, turning his face toward the cushions of the sofa to hide his wet cheeks.
