I saw it.
He saw it.
He pressed again, lower this time, and watched her face instead of his hands.
“How long has it been this swollen?” he asked.
“A few days,” she said.
I said, “Since Monday at least.”
My mother shot me a look.
I ignored it.
The doctor pulled off his gloves and dropped them into the trash.
“We need imaging,” he said.
My mother’s mouth tightened.
“Is that necessary?”
“Yes,” he said.
There was no drama in his voice.
That made it worse.
He wrote the order at 9:52 AM.
Urgent abdominal ultrasound.
He added bloodwork.
He added a note for the imaging department.
Then he said the sentence that changed the shape of the morning.
“We need to see what’s happening inside.”
Inside.
It was such a small word.
But it made my mother stop arguing.
The ultrasound room was cold.
Not chilly.
Cold in that hospital way that seems to come from the walls themselves.
A framed map of the United States hung near the workstation.
A rolling cart held gel bottles, folded towels, and a plastic tray of probe covers.
