The morning started the way every morning started: with Leo's routine, and with me moving through it like a woman who had done it a thousand times, because I had.
Six-fifteen, and his door stood open exactly the width of the frame, because a closed door made him anxious. His backpack sat in the same place on the hall table, its zipper facing the same direction. The blue inhaler was in the front pocket, where it had been since the pediatrician first showed me how to use it. His asthma was severe, and the panic attacks made it worse, and the only way through either was the routine.
I heard him before I saw him. His voice, low and fast, counting the hallway tiles in threes — three tiles, a pause, three tiles. Counting was how he held the world still.
"Leo," I said, and his head came up. He
