She comes running. One look at Jack and her face changes.
"Call Dr. Peter," I say.
She's already reaching for the phone.
I sit on the edge of Jack's bed and hold his hand. It's small and damp and he keeps curling his fingers around mine, the way he does when he's scared. His breathing sounds wrong — shallow, rattled, something caught in his chest.
"Daddy." His voice is thin. "I don't feel good."
"I know, buddy. The doctor's coming."
"Where's Mommy?"
My throat tightens. "She's not here right now."
"Can you call her?"
"Let's wait for the doctor first."
He closes his eyes. His grip on my fingers loosens, then tightens again. I sit there, one hand on his forehead, one hand in his, and I notice my own body feels wrong. My skin is hot. My shoulders ache. The headache that's been sittin
