Dr. Stevens looked toward the sound, then back at us.
His expression had the same controlled seriousness I had seen since he first understood what was printed on Diane’s prescription label.
He spoke carefully because Emma was listening.
He wanted her behind me.
I moved without arguing.
Emma slid toward the edge of the exam table, and I stayed close enough that she did not have to wonder where I was.
I still had questions for Diane.
I still needed to speak to my husband.
I still did not know how many ordinary moments in the previous three weeks I would replay later and wish I had understood sooner.
But those questions were no longer the first responsibility in front of me.
My daughter was.
The bottle had changed hands.
