Waylon’s shoulders quake and a weird noise breaches his tightly pressed lips. I dart a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching before tapping his shoulder gently. “Come on.”

He doesn’t fight me as I guide him toward the small alcove we hid in last week. It feels wrong standing here now. Like we’re tainting the memory. But what other choice do I have? It’s the only place that offers some sense of privacy.

Being mindful of his arm, I help him slide down so he’s sitting against the Emergency Exit.

“Where else?” I ask no louder than a whisper.

He gives a little shake of his head.

I grit my teeth and reach around him, lifting the hem of his sweatshirt along with the thin t-shirt underneath. He stiffens, but he doesn’t fight me on it as I lift both up, exposing his skin. Faded green smudges crawl up the side of his back, reaching around his front. I don’t get a chance to look any further though, because he leans forward, pulling away from me.

“Please stop.”

The pain in his voice is my undoing, and I have no choice but to listen. Sniffing loudly, wetly, I run my sleeve under my nose.

“It’s not what you think.”

“Is it your dad?” I grit out. “Is he hurting you, because if he is, we need to tell someone. I can—”

“No!” he says, voice surprisingly strong. He turns to glare at me. “It’s not him.”

I hate that I can’t tell if he’s lying. “Then who?”

“I told you, I fell.” His eyes beg me to believe him, and I want to. I want to but...

I start to shake my head, a sob getting lodged somewhere in my throat.

“Stop!” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You don’t know anything.”

“Someone’s hurting you,” I choke out. “That’s—”

“I fell down the stairs!”

“There’re f-fingerprints—”

“Shut up. Just shut up.” His face tightens. Hazel eyes standing out starkly against his sickly pallor. His nose flares with each short exhale as he begs me with his eyes to drop this.

But I can’t, I can’t, I—

“It was Billy, okay?” he blurts.

I frown. “Billy?”

He turns away as he answers quietly. “Billy Sharpe. He’s a grade above us. He’s my neighbor, and he gives me a hard time sometimes. That’s all.”

I study him, looking for any sign he might be lying. “When did he do this?”

His throat bobs, and he looks down at his lap. “The other day.”

“I think your arm’s broken. You need a doctor. Why didn’t your dad—”

“He’s been working,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t know. And it’s just a sprain.”

I really, really don’t think it is.

“You can’t tell.”

“But Way—”

He glares up at me through his lashes. “Promise me!”