The boy was laughing in the picture, his hair untidy and one arm wrapped around Hammer's neck.
Hammer stared at the photograph.
For a moment, he imagined Benjamin asking what happened.
He couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't disappoint his son.
Then he remembered something Benjamin once said after a volunteer at the hospital accidentally knocked over a box of paper cranes.
The man had apologized.
Benjamin smiled.
“It's okay. You can make another one.”
Hammer asked whether the boy wanted the ruined birds repaired.
Benjamin shook his head.
“No.”
Then he said.
“You have to be careful when you make the next ones.”
Hammer closed his eyes.
For years, he'd carried the memory as a sweet childhood remark.
Now it seemed to mean something far larger.
You couldn't undo every mistake.
You couldn't restore every thing you'd broken.
But you could stop pretending the damage hadn't happened.
And you could decide whether the next thing you built would be different.
At Rook's sentencing, Emma provided a victim-impact statement through arrangements suited to her rehabilitation needs.
She didn't speak at length.
Her recovery still required careful management of fatigue, and she had no desire to recount every frightening detail before a room full of strangers.
Instead, she prepared her words with assistance from her attorney and rehabilitation team.
Mara accompanied her.
Lucy stayed with a trusted family member.
Emma wanted her daughter to know the proceedings were happening, but she did not want the child to feel responsible for participating in them.
When Emma's statement was presented, the courtroom was quiet.
She described the life she'd had before the attack.
Her work at Mercy Ridge.
Her evening routines with Lucy.
The pleasure of helping children receive resources that made hospital care a little less frightening.
Then she described what changed.
The difficulty speaking.
The rehabilitation appointments.
The exhaustion.
The fear in her daughter's face.
And the small losses that continued long after the incident.
She couldn't yet work the hours she once had.
She needed help with tasks she'd previously completed without thinking.
And some mornings, the strain of ordinary conversation left her needing to rest.
But the hardest part wasn't the change in her own abilities.
It was knowing Lucy had witnessed her injury.
Emma's final paragraph was addressed directly to Rook.