“We can try,” I say.
I open Jack’s contact.
For a second I hesitate.
It will hurt him to see Alfie like this. The tears. The fear. Being thousands of miles away while your child cries for you must feel like torture.
But not seeing him would be worse.
Not knowing would be worse.
And Jack deserves to hear from his son before his imagination makes everything bigger and darker than it really is.
I press call.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then Jack’s face appears.
Airport lighting. Noise behind him. That carefully controlled expression he uses when he’s holding himself together by sheer will.
“Ava?”
“I’ve got him,” I say softly, turning the phone.
Jack’s face changes the second he sees Alfie.
Something tight in his eyes. Something protective. Something that says he would walk back to Carlisle if that was what it took.
“Hi mate,” he says, voice warm and steady.
Alfie’s lip trembles again.
“Dad. I fell down the stairs.”
“I know,” Jack says gently.
“They said I have to stay.”
Jack nods slowly.
“Okay. That just means they want to make sure you’re alright.”
“I don’t like it.”
“I know. Hospitals are a bit rubbish.”
That earns the smallest sniff.
“They’re going to take a picture of my bones,” Alfie says.
Jack manages a small smile.
“That sounds quite impressive.”
“I get to see them.”
