You there, Fang?
I'm always here for you, Moon Dance.
Except when you're not.
Hey, a man's gotta work. What's on your mind, sweet cheeks?
Sweet cheeks?
Oops, did I write that out loud?
You did.
My bad. So what's on your mind, sugar butt?
Oh brother. I grinned, shook my head, then quickly turned somber. There's something going on with my son.
Is everything okay?!
Yes. I mean, I don't know.
He's not sick again, is he?
No. In fact, quite the opposite.
I told him about the healing in Anthony's leg, and my son's seemingly increased athletic ability. There was a long pause before Fang wrote back.
Maybe you are mistaken, Moon Dance. Is it possible that his blood had already dried?
I shook my head, aware that I was alone in my living room and no one could see me shaking my head.
No. I saw the fresh wounds. My eyes happen to be very, very good.
I projected the image I had in my mind. My own memory, in fact.
A moment later, Fang wrote: We used to call those strawberries. Probably got them sliding over the grass and maybe on some dirt.
Right, I wrote. And even if it had been dried blood, where was the wound?
There was no wound?
None.
Just dried blood?
Yes.
There was another long pause, followed by And the dried blood was recent?
Of course. It wasn't there when I dropped him off.
Is there a chance it wasn't his blood?
No. I saw the abrasions.
In the image you projected to me, wrote Fang, I'm pretty sure I see them, too.
We're weird, I wrote.