Richard caught Sam’s hand and examined the sting on his palm. “I don’t see any so far.”

“They were yellow jackets.” She ran her hands down Sam’s body, stroking his arms and shoulders.

“I don’t think they leave stingers,” Richard said. “Do you see more welts?”

Turning the boy toward her, she took in Sam’s tear-streaked face. His cries became odder—he sounded almost like a seal barking. And he looked odd. At first, she thought he was just red from crying. But no. Darker splotches mottled his forehead and cheeks, and his bottom lip was swollen. “No stings, but Richard—”

“I’ll check his scalp.” He handed her the tube. “Apply antihistamine cream to the welts.”

Eyes bulging and lips convulsing, Sam looked like a fish in a net. A strangled wheeze tore from his throat. Her lungs tightened in response. “Richard, something’s not right.”

He parted Sam’s matted hair. “What?”

“He can’t breathe.”

“Sam!” Caitlin lunged between the seats.

Tessa shot a restraining hand to the girl’s shoulder. “Stay right there, Caitlin.”

Richard wrenched the boy to face him, and his eyes widened. “Hand me the first aid kit. Now.”

Caitlin snatched the kit from the dashboard where Richard tossed it aside.

“Good girl.” Tessa passed the kit to Richard and squeezed Caitlin’s hand.

“Should we call my daddy?” Caitlin whispered.

“In a minute,” she said.

Richard thrust the sticky clothes at Tessa. “Get these out of here.”

Almost before he spoke, she grabbed them and jogged away. A few lingering wasps dive-bombed her face. She swatted them with the bundle, tossed it, and ran. Returning, she discovered Sam curled up on the floor.

He gripped his upper arms with white fingers. “But I don’t want a shot,” he choked between sobs.

Caitlin peeked through the opening beneath the headrest. “Sam is uncommonly scared of shots.”

Richard held a clear, plastic cylinder, about half the length of a paper towel roll. He popped a blue cap and drew out a smaller tube. “He’s having an allergic reaction. I need to give him epinephrine before he goes into anaphylactic shock. Get him onto the seat.”

His assessment was calmly clinical, but a lump of burning fear rose in her throat. She swallowed it and sprang inside, hauling the boy onto her lap.

“It’ll only hurt for a second, Sam.” Richard reached across them, gathering the meaty, outer flesh of Sam’s left leg in his free hand. Gripping the syringe in his other, he lowered his forearm onto the child’s thighs, securing them in place. “I know it’s hard, buddy, but stay still.” Richard met her gaze and lifted a brow.

Tightening her grip, she nodded her readiness.

He pressed the bright orange end of the epi-pen into Sam’s leg, and it clicked.

With his throat too tight to scream, Sam wheezed and stiffened.