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Then he set his tray down.

Both hands were bandaged.

“Oh, Micah.”

His expression changed immediately.

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve been found in a ditch.”

I took the chair beside him before he could object and reached for his hands.

He put them in my lap with a long-suffering sigh.

The dressings were clean. One wrapped over his knuckles; the other covered a smaller patch across the back of his hand.

I turned them carefully.

He had driven me home yesterday. Carried his books out of the library. Told me he’d see me in the morning.

His hands had been fine then.

“Did your mom do these?” I asked.

“Yes, Hazel. Dad was there too. Everybody’s seen them.”

“Do they hurt?”

“They hurt like hell.”

That was the first honest answer I’d gotten all morning.

I looked up at him.

His face softened for a second, then he remembered he was being fussed over in front of his brothers.

“You can let go now,” he muttered. “They’re still attached.”

I ignored that and smoothed a lifting corner of tape.

Ruckus reached across the table for Micah’s unopened milk.

“I’ll get that,” I said.

“I can open my own milk,” Micah protested.

Ruckus opened it while we were arguing and set it in front of him.

Micah glared at both of us.

I leaned up and kissed his temple.

He lowered his head enough to let me, which did considerable damage to his complaint.

“Seriously,” he said afterward. “I’m not five.”