Unlike everything else in the school, these half dozen cots are not miniaturized. Each one has the length and volume of an adult-sized casket, sheeted in the same fleshy material of a whoopee cushion. On the last one is Junior, tucked fetal, back turned to the door. Even from across the room, Henry can see the tremors racking the boy’s entire frame.

Henry drops to his knees beside the cot. Down, boy. Down. He wraps the pretzel of his son into an embrace, whispering the same things he’d told the fog during the drive over here, and to the same effect. He lifts Junior, light as a bundle of kindling, off the cot. When a papery blanket slips off and to the floor, he notices the boy isn’t in his jeans, but has been changed into a pair of oversized gym shorts, the drawstrings looped into two long bunny ears hanging from his emaciated navel. The boy’s left hand is balled into a fist, and between two fingers is a ridge of copper. The lucky penny.

Henry turns to leave and is met by the school nurse. There’s an anxious, maternal crook to her as she retrieves the blanket from the floor and sets it back over the boy. Behind her, leaning against the door frame, is the school principal, his tree-trunk forearms crossed over a knitted tie.

“What happened to his jeans?” Henry asks.

“Little Henry had an accident,” the nurse says, nodding at a heavy-looking bag in the corner. “Poor guy’s got a fever through the roof. We’ve kept a close eye on him, but couldn’t administer any meds to help. We didn’t have a signed authorization form on file from—well, you know.”

“I’m sorry, I just must’ve forgot, but you can now. Give him anything, whatever will fix him. He said he felt kind of bad this morning, so has he been here all day, or?”

The principal says they’ve been trying to get ahold of Henry for—

“Over an hour, yeah, I know. But is he … ?”

“His teacher told us that every time she’d asked if he was feeling sick, he said he was fine.” The nurse strokes Junior’s flushed cheek. “Been toughing it out all day. Until the accident. Gym class, last period of the school day.”

“So what should I do now, huh? What you think’s the matter with him?”

“Not really my place to diagnose, but I’d guess it’s a stomach flu. But with that fever and mean cough of his, could even be pneumonia. Best get him to a doctor for antibiotics, just in case.”

The nearest hospital is over thirty miles away, an impossible distance to cross on fumes. Not that either of them has health insurance, anyway.

“No, yeah, but is there anything I can do or give him in the meantime?”