She’d also voice whatever he signed for the social worker and the cop, so he needed to keep any mutterings in his head and his hands still. He’d gotten in trouble with his teacher a few times when he’d signed his displeasure at a grade or protested an assignment. Of course, he had called the teacher a bitch, an opinion he continued to stand by. He just wished he hadn’t signed it for the interpreter to see. He made a note to keep his opinion of the adults in this room unsigned.

“This,” Dr. Dani continued, “is Maddie Shafer. She’s a social worker. She’s here to support you and Joshua.”

He gave the social worker a brusque nod and figured he might as well tell the truth at this point. Some of the truth, anyway. Enough to keep Joshua safe. If they separated them . . . He’d have to deal with that later.

“My mom did this,” he told her, pointing at his head. “She’s always taken drugs, but it’s gotten worse in the last week. She’s passed out at home. But she was breathing when I left.”

The social worker nodded, her face serious. She was young. Really young.

Michael narrowed his eyes at her. “How old are you?” he asked, not caring that he was being rude again.

“Twenty-seven,” she said. “I know I look young, but I’ve been doing this job for five years. I’ve already got an emergency foster home that will take both of you. This is until I investigate your mother, okay?”

Michael slumped in relief. Both of us. Then his mind jumped to the next sentence. They were going to investigate his mother.

“She won’t like that,” he signed. “She might not answer the door, even if she isn’t still passed out. If she’s awake, she won’t be nice to you. She’ll lie to you. She’ll tell you that I’m lying.”

Maddie Shafer gave him a smile that reminded him of a shark. “Let me worry about your mother. My priority is making sure you and Joshua are safe. Officer Cullen will accompany me.”

The lady cop signaled the interpreter, who began signing for her. “Does your mother have access to any weapons?”

Michael hesitated. Then nodded as he carefully considered his answer. “My stepfather’s gun safe is full of guns.” One of which was under his own pillow at home. If the cops found it, they’d ask questions. They might charge him with possession of a weapon. If they pressed, he’d ask the doctor to check his other wounds. Once she saw that his ass was still bleeding, she’d be able to tell them that he had been . . .

He fought not to cringe, swallowing back the bile that burned his throat at the memory of Brewer’s rough hands. Of the pain that could still steal his breath.