He cries out, and for a second, I think I’ve already hit him and somehow blacked it out. I wait for the telling ache to register in my knuckles. I wait for blood to spurt from his nose. I wait as remorse rushes forward as hotly as my anger did—

Only the pain never comes. My vision clears, and I don’t quite understand what I’m seeing at first, but it’s not blood.

My fist is frozen in mid-air, inches from Waylon’s head. He’s curled protectively over the arm—his left arm—the one I just moments ago grabbed. The one he all but ripped away from me with a piercing yelp of pain. He has his back angled to me, shoulders hunched as if bracing himself.

As if bracing himself for me to hit him.

Tears rush forward once more, and shame crawls over me like a tidal wave, dousing the flames. Leaving me cold. Numb.

Slowly, I drop my arm back to my side. Waylon’s eyes are squeezed shut, and I can’t help being drawn to the dark circles under his eyes. He looks sick. Gaunt. He looks like he’s in agony, and I want to scream. Throw something.

I bite down on my molars as I slowly approach him. He tenses, and I whisper, “Let me see.”

He knows what I mean, and shakes his head, and pulls back.

“Way, please,” I beg brokenly.

His face scrunches up, but he eases up on the hold he has over his arm. The sleeve of his sweatshirt has drawn up some, revealing his wrist. I hold my breath as I gently reach out and start carefully pushing up the fabric.

A sharp gust of air punches out of me at the bruises mottling his arm, just below the elbow. Black, blue, green, and purple. His wrist has to be twice the size it was when I held it last week.

“Who did this?” I hardly recognize my voice. Hardly hear myself over the blood roaring in my ears.

He gives a little shake of his head. He whispers, “No one.” A beat. A swallow. “I fell.”

I can barely see through the tears clouding my vision. My voice shakes, and it feels like there are knives in my throat as I say, “I don’t believe you.”

He tries to pull away then and winces, so I let go. He adjusts his sleeve, and I can’t help but watch the way his jaw ticks with how tightly he holds himself. Blood stains the corner of his lip and I realize he must have bit it.

He’s hurting. More than he’ll ever let me see.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know how long I stand there, watching Waylon as the pieces start falling together like an avalanche, crashing down on me until I’m sure I’ll never get up again.