The Quiet Room
What the Rain Kept

The Old Bruise

August 25, 2026 · Part 7 of 10 · 2 min

Dr. Anand had the kind of quiet voice that made you lean in instead of tune out. She didn't look alarmed. That was the strange part — her face didn't do anything dramatic. She just went very still for a second, the way people go still when they're doing careful math in their head.

"Mrs. Voss." She said it to Mom, not sharp, just clear. "Can you come look at this for me?"

Mom leaned over the exam table. I leaned too, from my chair by the wall, close enough to see it — a bruise along Poppy's lower back and side, greenish-yellow at the edges the way bruises go when they're healing, old, weeks old maybe, in a long line like something had pressed against her for longer than a bump usually would.

"I don't—" Mom's hand went to her own mouth. "I don't know what that's from."

"It's not fresh," Dr. Anand said. "A week, maybe two. Does she fall a lot? Play equipment, furniture, anything like that?"

"She's three. She falls constantly." Mom said it fast, the way you say things you want to be true.

Dr. Anand nodded slowly, writing something on her clipboard that none of us could see. Then she looked past Mom, straight at me, in a way none of the other adults in that hospital had all afternoon.

"You're her sister?"

"Yeah."

"Junie, right?" She must have heard Mom say it earlier. "Would it be all right if I asked you a couple of questions? Just you and me, for a minute."

Mom's head turned toward me fast. "She doesn't need to—"

"It's standard," Dr. Anand said, easy, like it cost nothing, though her eyes hadn't left mine. "Won't take long."

I felt my own heartbeat in my ears.

"Okay," I said, before Mom could finish her sentence.

Continue the story Part 8: What Junie Told the Doctor →

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