he says nothing as I grab his injured arm. Biting down my lip, I lay it on my lap and draw on the non-injured side. Once I’m done, he studies my drawing. “What is that?” “An arrow.” “Why an arrow?” “Daddy says when you feel bad, you should keep that energy inside.” “Why inside?” “So you can store it for later. Bad things happen for a reason.” “Bad things happen for a reason,” he repeats, staring between the arrow and my face
SOBBING. HE GOT IT TATTOOED.
