Chapter 15
The follow-up room looked same. Pale walls. White sheet. EXIT sign still crooked. Fluorescent buzz overhead. Nurse stood by sink. Same blue scrubs. Same badge. She didn't reach for my leg right away. That was new.
My scar pulled when I swung legs off cot. Knee pink and shiny. Shin still dark in spots. Healed skin tight. Not bloody now. Nurse knelt. Same height as first day.
"Let me see it," she said. Same words. Different voice. Softer.
I let her. No splint to hide it.
She checked scar with gloved hands. Gentle pressure. No flinch this time. She measured length with paper tape. Wrote notes. Then she sat back on stool.
"Ready to tell it whole?" she asked.
Room quiet. Breathing loud. My turn.
I told truth. Dad's truck tailgate fell. Not shut right. I stood behind it when he backed up driveway. He braked hard. Gate dropped. Hit my shin and knee. I screamed. Dad carried me inside. Blood on concrete.
He didn't call clinic then. He had blue splint in garage. From his old work. He wrapped leg. Said colors would make it better. Said don't tell or they'd take me away. I believed him. That was why I said don't take it. That was why I said my dad gave me those colors.
Nurse listened. Didn't interrupt. Hands still. Eyes on my face.
"Thank you for telling it straight," she said.
Door opened. Caseworker came in. Same woman from hearing. Clipboard. Caregiver behind her. Maria. My foster mom. Dad not there. His chair empty.
Caseworker sat. Explained safety decision. Dad finished parenting classes. Attended counseling. Admitted he hid injury. No jail. Supervised visits only. No overnights yet. Next review in ninety days. Reunification possible if he keeps progress.
"Where you live stays with Maria for now," she said. "Safe and stable. That stays."
I nodded. Chest tight then loose.
Maria squeezed my shoulder. "You choose what happens next," she said.
They brought blue splint out. In clear bag. Black straps dusty. Bright blue still bright. Same object from first day. Now clean and empty.
Caseworker put bag on cot beside me.
"What do you want done with it?" she asked.
I stared at blue plastic. First time it felt small. Not big enough to hide leg anymore.
I touched bag. Remembered pain. Remembered dad saying colors were gift. Remembered fear when nurse pulled it off.
"I don't want it on my leg," I said. "I don't want it in trash either."
Nurse tilted head. "What should it be then?"
I thought. Then knew.
"Cut it," I said. "Make it flat. I want to keep color, not shape."
Maria smiled. "Like art?"
"Yeah," I said. "Color is mine now. Not his cover."
Caseworker wrote that down. Said they'd cut straps off, leave blue shell, let me decide later to paint or hang it. My choice. My story.
Nurse stood. Wrote final note. Said wound healed well. Scar would fade but stay. Said I did brave work.
Outside hallway, dad waited behind glass window. Supervised area. He waved small. I waved small back. No splint between us now.
May you like
Maria helped me down. Leg held. Scar pink in fluorescent light. No longer hidden. No longer his colors. My colors now.
We walked toward door. I carried bag myself. Door window showed parking lot. Same EXIT sign glowed. I pushed door open.
