My son and his wife asked me to watch their two-month-old baby while they went shopping. But no matter how I held him or tried to calm him, he kept crying uncontrollably. I immediately sensed something was wrong. When I lifted his clothes to check his diaper… I froze. There was something there… something unimaginable. My hands started shaking. I grabbed him and rushed straight to the hospital.

By the time I reached the hospital, I had rehearsed and rejected twelve possible explanations.

Maybe he had been pinched by a diaper tab.

Maybe some absurd blood-vessel thing was happening under the skin.

Maybe I was overreacting.

Maybe I was seeing a bruise because my mind had already decided there must be one.

Then he cried again from the back seat, a thin, broken wail that seemed too big for such a small body, and I knew none of those comforting lies would survive contact with a doctor.

I didn’t bother parking properly. I left the car half crooked in front of the emergency entrance, grabbed the diaper bag and unbuckled the car seat so fast I nearly jammed the release. Noah’s face crumpled harder the moment I lifted him, and he let out a sound that made the nurse at the front desk stand before I had even reached her.

“What’s wrong?”