He leaned over the sink and pried up his left nostril, examining it in the mirror. It looked dry in there. Empty. No more blood. “Danny!” Claudine called from the bottom of the stairs. “The pasta’s ready! Mom says to get down here. Now!” He pulled the note from his pocket and considered throwing it away. But then he walked down to the kitchen. “Here’s a note from the nurse,” he said, handing the envelope to his father. “It’s no big deal.” “Did you get hurt at school?” Mom asked, setting down a slotted spoon that she’d been using to stir the pasta. “I had a bloody nose,” Danny said. “It was nothing. She said she had to send a note anyway.” Dad unfolded the paper and read it. “What’s this mean?” he asked, squinting. “ ‘Nosebleed. Likely due to digital manipulation.’ ” “It means he was picking his nose!” said Claudine. “Lay off,” Mom said. “Did you get any on your shirt, Danny?” “Snot?” “Blood. Snot washes out, but blood stains.”
