“We had pasta,” I said, my voice dry and thick from the charcoal. “Daniel made the sauce from the tomatoes in our backyard garden.”
“This was not spoiled tomatoes,” Dr. Vance said, tapping his thumb against his clipboard. “The lab found twelve milligrams of zolpidem in your system, and slightly more than that in your son’s.”
“Noah,” I said, trying to sit up against the stiffness in my lower back. “Where is Noah?”
“He is down the hall in pediatric recovery,” the doctor said. “He is awake, but his blood pressure is still quite low.”
I looked at the black digital clock on the wall, which read ten minutes past three in the morning. I wondered why Daniel was not standing in the doorway with his truck keys in his hand, asking if he could sign the insurance forms.
“My husband must be at home cleaning up the kitchen,” I said, though my own words felt heavy and slow.
Dr. Vance did not look up from his clipboard. “The police went to your house an hour ago, Clara, but nobody answered the front door.”
The morning light in the pediatric hallway was thin and gray, smelling of bleach and old coffee. Noah sat on a blue vinyl bench with his knees pulled up to his chest, his fingers rolling the hem of his gray t-shirt into a tight cord.
I sat beside him, the hospital gown stiff against my legs under my trench coat. His face was pale, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look much younger than sixteen.
“Did your stepfather say anything to you before we fell asleep, Noah?” I asked.
Noah did not look at me. He kept his eyes on his sneakers, his thumb moving over the fabric of his shirt.
“He came into the living room while you were on the floor,” Noah murmured. “I tried to reach for the corded phone by the pantry, but I couldn’t get up.”
