The hospital was bright and sterile and smelled of antiseptic and fear. Garrett sat in a plastic chair beside Milo’s bed, watching his son sleep.
Milo’s shoulder had been relocated. The doctor had given him painkillers and told him to rest. He would need physical therapy, but there was no permanent damage.
Garrett had thanked the doctor. He had filled out the paperwork. He had called the school to let them know Milo wouldn’t be in tomorrow.
And now he sat in the silence, listening to the beep of the monitors, and tried not to think about what had just happened.
His phone buzzed. Then again. Then again.
He pulled it out and looked at the screen.
*You have been tagged in 1,247 posts.*
He opened one.
It was the livestream footage. Someone had clipped the moment Garrett had taken off his shirt—the scars, the tattoos, the look on Bryce’s face. The clip had already been viewed 2.3 million times.
The comments were a torrent.
*Who is this guy?*
*That’s not a delivery boy. That’s a killer.*
*Bryce Keller just messed with the wrong dad.*
*Someone find out who Garrett Danner is.*
Garrett closed the app. His hands were steady. They always were.
But inside, something was breaking.
He had spent twelve years burying his past. Twelve years of night shifts and warehouse work and quiet dinners with Milo. Twelve years of pretending that the man he had been—the man who had done things that could never be spoken of—was dead.
And now, in four minutes, he had brought him back to life.
“Dad?”
Garrett looked up. Milo was awake, his eyes groggy but focused.
“Hey, buddy,” Garrett said. “How are you feeling?”
“My shoulder hurts.”
“I know. The doctor gave you something for the pain.”
Milo was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You never told me you were a fighter.”
Garrett leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
“I’m not a fighter,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“But you were.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”