Chapter 6: Four Times the Dose

Poppy fell asleep at nine with the otter under her chin.

I did not let go of her hand until her breathing slowed.

Then I went down to the kitchen, where the thermos sat on the counter.

Ansel had set out a clean glass jar with a metal lid.

"Pour it slowly," he said. "I have a friend in a hospital lab. She'll test it tonight if I bring it in person."

I unscrewed the green cap and tilted the thermos.

The tea ran into the jar, pale gold and steaming.

It smelled exactly like every night of my marriage.

My hand started to shake.

"Emme."

"I drank this," I said. "Seven months, every night, because he looked so kind carrying it."

The jar was full.

I screwed the lid on too hard, and the glass rim cracked under my palm.

A line of red opened across my hand.

I stared at it.

I did not even feel it.

"Sit," Ansel said.

He pushed me onto a stool, took my wrist in one hand and turned my palm to the light.

"It's not deep."

He wet a towel and pressed it against the cut.

His hands were rough and slow.

For a moment neither of us spoke.

"Hold still," he said.

I looked at his bent head, and at the gray at his temple, and I noticed that he had stopped moving.

His thumb lay across the inside of my wrist, where my pulse was.

His breathing had changed.

I told myself it was because I had scared him with the blood.

Then he cleared his throat and pulled a first-aid kit out of a drawer.

"I want a rule," I said.

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