In his head, Rick was shouting. Though nothing came out of his mouth, there was an occasional twitching of his lips.
He was unaware that his face was red with effort, red with the effort of trying to move muscles that refused to respond, red like Tracey’s convulsing, swollen face.
Timmy stood still. Looked down at his feet. Then his head turned slowly to face Rick.
His tear-stained face smiled pathetically, a poor little boy, insecure and frightened, needing his mother, who appeared to reject him, or his father, who appeared to ignore him.
This wasn’t what Tracey saw.