I had not stumbled upon it. I had made it. And it was mine. Meant for my father, who was waiting for a way to wake up, just as Cate was waiting for some honey to help her heal.

I would try to help him first. And then I would try to help her.

—

I peeked out of the woodshed. There was no one in the yard.

I saw no one as I crossed the clearing and ducked around the back of the cabin, the jar in my hand.

When I looked through the window, I saw no one except my father.

Carefully, quietly, I pushed the window open, put the jar on the table just inside, and hauled myself up and through.

I could hear Esther and my mother in the kitchen, talking, but their words were jumbled. Just chatter. It had been some time since I had chatted like that with either of them.

I stood quietly for a moment, listening, and then turned to the bed.

My father was as he always was.

I unscrewed the lid of the jar.

The concoction inside smelled sweet and musky. I was suddenly very glad that I had never reached the stump below the cabin to gather skunk stink instead.

I screwed the lid back on tight and shook the jar for a minute or two until the balsam sludge had blended with the rest of the dark brew.

I wondered whether I should feed it to him. Or smear it on the scar where his head had split, though I didn’t see what good that would do, since what ailed him went too deep for that. And the mess might make my mother work harder to keep me from trying what else I meant to try.

So I fed him what I could.

It was difficult to hold him up and drizzle the sticky potion into his mouth, and I could manage only a little at a time. Too much of it drooled down his chin. But I got some into him. Not much, but some.

I laid him down again and tipped the jar to gather some of the syrup onto the tip of my finger, and then I worked it into his mouth, lifting him again until he had swallowed it. I did that over and over until I’d fed him all I could. And then I cleaned his mouth with the hem of my shirt, screwed the lid back on the jar, and kissed him on the cheek.

As I stood up straight again, I saw his eyes roll behind their lids. Stop. Roll again.

“Daddy!” I whispered, close to his face. I shook his shoulder. “Daddy, wake up!”

But he didn’t. His eyes went still again.

I pulled one eyelid up with the tip of my finger.

His eye was looking elsewhere. Nowhere I could see. And the thin, soft skin of his eyelid felt like a curtain to another world.