Minutes felt like hours. I paced the small, sterile confines of the examination room where they eventually led me. The air smelled of industrial lemon and fear. Finally, the door creaked open.
Dr. Patel, a middle-aged man with eyes that looked like they had seen too much of the world’s darkness, stepped in. He didn’t smile.
“We’ve stabilized him for the moment,” he said, his voice a low baritone. “But we need to perform an urgent ultrasound. The bruise on his abdomen isn’t just a surface injury. There’s significant swelling.”
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked, my hands shaking so violently I had to tuck them under my arms.
“We’re going to find out,” he replied gently, but his eyes remained guarded.
In the radiology suite, the lights were dimmed. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic thump-thump of the ultrasound machine. I watched the screen—a chaotic world of gray and black shadows. The technician moved the transducer over Noah’s soft skin.
Dr. Patel leaned closer to the monitor. “Stop there,” he commanded. “Freeze the image.”
The room went cold. Even the machine seemed to hold its breath. Dr. Patel pointed to a dark, irregular shape near the liver.
