The knock came on my kitchen door right when I was wiping the counter.

I knew it was Timmy before I even turned around.

He stood on the step with his hands in his pockets and that same faded t-shirt.

“Hi Mrs. Miller,” he said. “Do you have any pancakes left?”

I told him to come on in and I would make fresh ones.

This was the third Saturday he had shown up asking.

His mama Linda works nights at the plant and she is stretched thin.

We sit two rows apart at church most Sundays.

Last month the ladies took up a collection for her electric bill and she cried in the fellowship hall.

I mixed up the batter and set a plate in front of him.

He ate like he had not touched food since Thursday.

I sat across from him with my tea and watched.

When he reached for the syrup his sleeve slid back.

Four dark marks showed on his upper arm right where fingers would grab.

I had been a nurse for thirty years.

I knew that bruise the second I saw it.

I did not say anything about it.

I just asked if he wanted butter too.

He nodded and kept eating.

After he left I stood at the sink a long time.

The phone was sitting right there on the counter.

I picked it up once then set it back down.

I kept thinking about Linda and how a report would land on a woman already working every night.

The next Sunday after service I walked over to her in the parking lot.

She looked worn out with dark circles under her eyes.

“Timmy has been coming over for pancakes,” I said.

She gave a tired smile.

“He says yours are better than mine,” she said.

I almost told her about the marks but I stopped.

“How are the night shifts treating you?” I asked instead.

She sighed and said she barely sees him some days.

“I feel like I am failing at everything,” she said.

I told her she was doing the best she could with what she had.

She thanked me and got in her car.

I drove home feeling like I had missed the moment to speak up.

A week later Timmy showed up on a Tuesday evening.

He had a red mark on his cheek this time.

I asked what happened while I heated the griddle.

“Mom got mad when I spilled juice,” he said.

He ate two full plates and some leftover chicken.

I kept looking at his arm but the sleeve stayed down.

That night the phone still sat on the counter.

I called my old friend Ruth from the hospital.

I told her about the pancakes and the bruise and the new mark on his face.

“You have to think about the boy first,” she said.

“But Linda is already drowning,” I told her.

Ruth was quiet for a minute on the line.