Antihistamines.
Antibiotics.
Wound cleaning.
Pain control.
Bloodwork.
Photographs.
Reports.
Doctors speak in low, controlled voices that make everything sound even worse.
Chemical irritant.
Insect contamination.
Deliberate introduction possible.
Cast tampering.
Prolonged distress.
Psychological trauma.
You stand beside Diego’s bed while he sleeps under medication, his arm cleaned and bandaged, the broken bone stabilized again.
He looks small.
Too small.
Ten years old.
Your son.
Your little boy who once asked if clouds got tired from moving all day.
You press your hand against the bed rail because you are afraid if you touch him, he will wake and recoil.
Elvira sits on the other side of the bed, humming an old song from Oaxaca.
She has not looked at you in two hours.
You deserve that.
A doctor named Dr. Herrera enters with a serious face.
“Mr. De la Vega?”
You straighten. “Yes.”
“We removed organic material from inside the cast. There was sugar residue, honey or syrup-like substance, and evidence of red ant activity. The inner padding appears to have been deliberately contaminated after the cast was placed.”
Your mouth goes dry.
“After?”
“Yes. The exterior cast was punctured in several spots. Small holes. Possibly made with a needle or fine tool. Enough to inject or introduce sweet liquid under the padding.”
The hallway seems to tilt.
You remember Diego screaming the first night.
It burns.
You remember Valeria telling you not to remove the cast.
It burns deeper.
Dr. Herrera continues, “The skin damage is painful but treatable. Infection risk is being managed. The greater concern is the delay. He was in severe distress.”
Delay.
A clean word for your failure.
You close your eyes.
“He told me,” you whisper.
The doctor says nothing.
That silence is mercy and judgment together.
Child Protective Services arrives before noon.
