The courage in that room did not belong to the adults.
It belonged to the four-year-old in pink socks.
Outside, evening had settled over the parking lot while everything inside the exam room became sharper.
The orange bottle was no longer in my hands. It sat sealed inside the clear bag.
The time was documented.
The doctor had recorded what he observed and what I reported.
Emma had answered his questions in her own words.
Nothing about that erased the weeks before it.
It only meant the secret was no longer contained inside our house.
A few moments later, color moved across the frosted clinic glass.
Red.
Blue.
Then red again.
A vehicle had stopped outside.
I heard a door shut in the parking lot.
My body reacted before my mind did. I shifted closer to Emma.
