For most parents, running a hand through a child’s hair is a mindless, rhythmic act of affection. It is a quiet ritual of connection that usually reveals nothing more than the benign “trophies” of a day well-spent: a stubborn tangle, a stray blade of grass, or perhaps a crumb from a smuggled snack. These are the expected, minor hurdles of caregiving, easily smoothed away with a comb and a smile. But occasionally, the fingers snag on something that does not belong. It isn’t a knot, and it isn’t a toy fragment. It is immobile, firm, and alien. In that heartbeat,...
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