I cut three red apples into slices on the little plastic cutting board while the digital thermometer beeped on the kitchen counter behind me.

Evan slid the thin plastic tip out from under his tongue and tilted the glowing blue screen toward the light from the window.

“A hundred and one point four,” Evan said.

He dropped his hand and rubbed his knuckles with his right thumb.

“You’re staying in bed,” I said.

“Lucy and I can take the sweet potato dish ourselves.”

Lucy was perched on the wooden kitchen stool next to the counter, twisting a loose red thread on the sleeve of her sweater.

Her stuffed plush rabbit sat in her lap, its left ear mashed flat from being slept on in her bed.

“I tucked her green crayon set into the front pocket of her bag,” I said.

“She won’t need crayons at your mother’s place,” Evan said, his voice low and thin.

“Your mother doesn’t like marks on the dining room table.”

“Your mother is going to ask three times why I’m not there,” Evan added.

“I’ll tell her you’re running a fever,” I said.

“She can read the bank receipt if she needs something else to look at.”

“Did you set up the automatic payment from your credit union account?” Evan asked.

“The nine hundred forty dollars goes out on the twenty-sixth,” I said.

“It transfers by itself every month on the same day.”

“She called my phone twice yesterday while you were at the clinic,” Evan said.