Chapter 5
The door with the window didn't open all the way. Just enough for him to lean in.
I'd heard his shoes in the hall before I saw him. That soft squeak he made on linoleum. My stomach did two things at once. It lifted, like he'd come to fix it, and it dropped, like I was gonna get in trouble for letting her take it off.
He was smiling. Dad had his work shirt on, the gray one with the pocket, and his hair was combed. He held his keys in one hand and raised the other palm like hey, easy.
"Hey, buddy," he said. "Heard we had a little adventure."
The nurse stood. She still had the blue splint in her left hand down by her side. She didn't hide it behind her back. She didn't hold it up either.
"Mr. Alvarez?" she said. "Thanks for coming in so quick."
He nodded and stepped in but didn't come to the cot. He stayed by the doorway, like he was being polite. I could smell his aftershave and the coffee from his truck.
"Playground fall yesterday," he said, calm. "He went off the edge of the climber. I told him, you need something to keep it still. Got him those colors cause he picked them out. Blue like his bike. Wanted him to feel tough, not bummed about it."
He said it smooth, like he'd practiced. He looked at me when he said the part about the colors, and he gave me that wink he did when we got away with extra ice cream.
My leg was still uncovered. The sheet under it had a little blood spot now. I tried to pull the paper drape over it without him seeing, but the nurse had folded it back.
Dad's eyes flicked down to it. Just for a second. His smile didn't move but his jaw did.
"You didn't tell them it wasn't that bad?" he asked me, still friendly. "We iced it. You were tough, remember?"
I didn't know which answer he wanted. I nodded because my head felt light. Part of me wanted him to come hug me and say good job. He took one step closer and put his hand on the metal rail of the cot. Not on me. On the cot.
I flinched. I didn't mean to. My shoulder jerked up and my heel tried to slide back even though it hurt. The rail rattled a little under his hand.
He pulled his hand back right away.
"Whoa, sensitive, huh?" he said, and laughed a little. "That's my brave guy."
The nurse watched that. She didn't say anything about the flinch. Her face stayed the same, that calm clinical look, but I saw her shift her weight between her feet.
"Thanks for explaining," she said. Her voice was even, like she was reading from a card in her head. "For these kinds of injuries we have a routine. We do a second, more complete exam in our treatment area. It's our standard so we don't miss anything. And we keep parents in the waiting area during that part so we can keep everything neutral and comfortable for him."
She said it like it was a rule, not a choice. Like parking in the right spot at the clinic.
Dad's eyebrows went up. Still smiling.
"Oh, sure," he said. "You need me to fill out forms or something? I can stay right here, he likes me here."
"I understand," she said. "Our policy is to have caregivers wait just outside during the head-to-toe check. It helps us get accurate history from kids without any pressure. It'll be about twenty minutes. We'll come get you as soon as we're done."
She didn't ask. She told him. And she said it kindly enough that it didn't sound mean.
Dad looked at me again. "You good with that, buddy? You're okay for a few?"
I wanted to say don't leave, and I wanted to say please go. My throat made a noise but no words. I ended up doing a tiny nod again. My hands were twisted in the bottom of my blue t-shirt.
"Attain," he said. He tapped the door frame twice, light. "I'll be right out there. Be tough for the nurse, alright?"
He stepped back into the hall. The nurse followed him just to the doorway and pointed.
"Right around the corner, second door on the left. Chairs and water there. I'll come find you," she said.
He walked that way. I heard his keys jingle.
She closed the exam room door halfway and came back to me. She didn't put the blue splint back on. She set it on the counter, up high where I could still see it but couldn't reach it.
"Okay," she said quietly, just to me. "We're going to move you to the inner room where it's quieter. I'm going to push your cot, you don't have to walk. You did good staying still."
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She unlocked the wheels. The cot moved, and I held the edge so my leg didn't bounce. Through the window in the door I could see down the hall. Dad was sitting in the waiting area chairs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at his phone. Not gone. Just there, on the other side of the wall.
The nurse pushed me past the doorway, away from him, toward the inner treatment area where the light was brighter and the door had no window at all.
