He must've felt the scabs while holding my hand. After looking at it for a few seconds with a pout he stared up at me, eyes ridden with far too much concern for a seven year old boy to carry. "What happened?" he asked softly, his hand still holding on to my fingers. His eyes never left mine as I explained. The little boy who couldn't stand still for a minute, so intently searching for the truth. He stayed silent as I told it and even for a few seconds after, the pout still there and I swear he knew I was lying. He knew I'd done it on purpose; punching the gravel beneath me until my knuckles bled.
