At close range.
Not spilled.
Not accidentally flipped.
Launched.
The word stayed in the room.
The nurse didn’t look at me with pity.
He looked at me as someone who had already seen enough family stories disguised as accidents.
A social worker from the hospital later entered.
He brought a badge attached to the sweater and a noteboard resting on his knees.
He sat next to me, not in front of me.
That detail mattered.
I didn’t want to interrogate myself as an enemy.
I wanted him to talk.
He asked me what happened.
I told him everything.
The red truck.
The ceramic cup.
The freshly served coffee.
Vanessa’s hand on the handle.
The launch.
Lily’s scream.
Diane pointing out the way out.
Robert ordering me to get “that girl.”
Mark watching without doing anything.
The social worker wrote without interrupting me.
He scored exact hours, names and phrases.
