After another minute he shifts slightly closer. Not touching yet. Just closing the gap.
I wait.
Then his good hand reaches out and grabs a bit of my sleeve.
Not dramatic. Just a small hold. Like he needs something steady.
I let him.
“Your dad will be here soon and your Granny and Grampy as well,” I say quietly. “And I’ll stay so you don’t have to be here on your own.”
His fingers tighten a little.
“Okay,” he says.
I gently brush a tear off his cheek.
“You’ve been very brave.”
“I cried,” he says, voice small.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Sometimes brave people cry.”
That seems to land.
His breathing slowly settles. Not calm yet. But safer.
And sitting there, with his small hand gripping my sleeve like he trusts I won’t disappear, something quietly important settles in my chest.
This isn’t just Jack trusting me.
Alfie does too.
A few minutes later the curtain moves and a doctor steps in. Calm voice. Calm face. The sort of presence that immediately makes things feel slightly less frightening.
“Hello Alfie, I’m Dr Patel,” he says.
Alfie presses closer into my side.
“I’m just going to talk to Ava for a moment, alright?”
Alfie nods but doesn’t let go of my sleeve.
The doctor lowers his voice slightly.
“So, we do think he has a concussion,” he says. “He was a little disoriented initially and he’s still complaining of headache and nausea. Because of his age and the mechanism of the fall we’d like to keep him overnight for observation.”
Overnight.
The knots in my stomach twist tighter.
“Is that… normal?” I ask quietly.
“Yes,” he reassures me. “This is us being cautious. Head injuries in children can evolve over several hours. We want to monitor him, wake him periodically, make sure symptoms don’t worsen.”
I nod.
“And his arm?”
