I stood in the corner of the master bedroom near the window nook, holding Theodore on my hip while the doctor unlatched his bag on the small desk.

He took out a fresh plastic packet, tore the paper top off, and drew clear liquid from a small glass bottle into a long syringe.

Raymond lay motionless under the quilt, his eyes half-closed and his chest barely moving under the white sheet.

“How has his breathing been since lunch, nurse?” Dr.

Wallace asked, holding the needle up to the lamp to check for air bubbles.

“He’s been quiet,” I said, taking two steps toward the desk with a hot porcelain cup of chamomile tea in my right hand.