(Sean's POV)
1:40 a.m. Jack is asleep. His fever is down to 101. The antibiotics are working — Dr. Peter said they would. His breathing is still wet, but the rattle softens. I pull the blanket to his chin. I stand there. I watch him breathe.
Then I head downstairs.
The kitchen drawer opens with a rattle. Batteries. Tape. A flashlight that doesn’t work. And the screwdriver — Phillips #2. The handle has a strip of masking tape on it. Rebecca’s handwriting. Small, even letters. The same ones on the spice jars. The same ones on the files at the office — blue, green, red, sorted by deal stage.
Phillips #2.
I take it to the living room.
The humidifier sits under the window. Beige plastic. I walk past it every day for six years. I don’t look at it the way I look at it now — kneeling on the
