Page 12 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
“Feels like it. He eats pancakes like it’s an Olympic event.”
“Then you’re parenting correctly.” She sets her tote on her lap. “And his mother? She must be the happiest woman on earth.”
My hands tighten on the wheel before I can stop them. I keep my eyes on the road. “She passed.”
The car fills with soft, respectful quiet. Melissa doesn’t apologize or rush to fill it. She just nods once. A small mercy.
“What’s he like?” she asks after a moment.
“Gentle. Tough when he needs to be.” I blow out a breath. “Stronger than he should have to be.”
“That’s how they save us,” she says, voice going far away. “My Will kept me upright when his father died. He doesn’t know it. But he did.”
We drive the rest of the way with a peace that isn’t comfortable, exactly, but isn’t unfriendly either.
Inside the hospital, a nurse at the ER desk looks up and smiles like she knows us already. Small towns. “Ms. Edwards? Right on time.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Melissa says, but the edge has dulled.
“You can wait here, Sheriff,” the nurse tells me gently.
Melissa glances at me, and under the steel I catch it. Fear. Small, but there. She clears her throat. “You’re coming.”
I nod. “Yes, ma—” I catch her look. “Yes.”
Behind a curtain, they hook her to an IV. I take a chair and pretend to read a three-year-old magazine about cactus gardening.
Outside the curtain, noise swells—rubber wheels, clipped voices, the crackle of urgency.
“Male, eleven years old. Fall at the school gymnasium. In and out of consciousness,” someone calls.
My brain blanks. The magazine slides from my hands.
“Name?” another voice asks.
“Broderick Vaughn.”
The world tunnels.
I’m moving before I know I’ve stood, shouldering through the curtain. There—on a gurney—white sheet, gray skin, my boy.
“Brick!” My voice breaks on his name.
A paramedic steps in front of me. “Sir, please—”
“He’s my son,” I rasp. “He’s supposed to be at school—what happened?”
“Sir, we need space,” the medic says, firm but kinder now that I’ve saidson. “He’s stable, but we’ve got to work.”
I stumble back because I must, because they have him now, because my hands are useless at my sides.
“Sheriff.” A woman in a bright scarf and a sensible bun appears at my shoulder, breathless. “I’m Riley Jenkins, the assistant principal. We called the ambulance.”
The name is familiar. Jasmine’s friend. My throat is sand. “What…?”
“Climbing unit in P.E. We think the harness failed.” She swallows. “He fell. We think maybe a leg fracture. Possible concussion. He was in and out, but he knew his name.”
I nod because if I speak, I’ll shatter.
