Exactly five.

Not four, not six.”

Ethan took the syringe from my fingers, holding it up to the lamp light to examine the tiny raised numbers on the plastic cylinder.

“Five milliliters every eight hours.”

“If she spits any of it out on her chin, you do not give her another full dose,” I said, pointing to the grid lines in the logbook.

“You write down roughly how much she swallowed, and you call the pediatric triage line if her fever goes above 102.”