Now a bottle of water had become part of the timeline none of us would ever forget.
Lydia turned it in her hand.
“You know what scares me?” she said.
“What?”
“If he hadn’t gotten sick that afternoon, I probably would have kept telling you to relax.”
“Maybe.”
“And you?”
I thought about it.
“I might have backed off.”
That answer surprised her.
“You?”
“Absolutely.”
Because instincts aren’t certainty.
That’s the uncomfortable part people sometimes leave out when they tell stories like this afterward.
Once you know the diagnosis, every earlier clue looks obvious.
In real time, it wasn’t obvious.
It was a thirsty kid on a hot beach.
Then a kid using the bathroom a lot.
Then a tired kid.
Then loose shorts.
Then bed-wetting.
Then vomiting.
Then breathing that didn’t look right.
The pattern became frightening because the pieces accumulated.
That was what finally mattered.
