He crossed husky arms over his chest. His face was a soft white sphere dotted with freckles. A grave little boy, broad and solid with a low center of gravity. His oversized yellow Lakers T-shirt was spotless. Same for baggy knee-length skater’s pants and red-and-black Nikes. Dark hair styled meticulously hung to his shoulders. Eighties hair-band coif on a six-year-old.

His eyes were a tone shy of black and active. Looking anywhere but at me.

“Aunt Bunny told you Mommy was going to die.”

The arms clenched tighter. “She’s sick. It doesn’t stop.”

“Mommy’s sickness doesn’t stop.”

“Aunt Bunny said.”

Instead of completing the sentence, he snatched up an action figure from a collection of dozens. One space ranger in an army of miniature centurions posed to do battle, green-scaled, fanged, plated with steroid muscles.

“Aunt Bunny said—”

“I didn’t give it to her.”

“That’s true.”

Silence. His mouth tightened into a sour little knot.

“Aunt Bunny told you the truth, Chad. You didn’t give Mommy her sickness.”

A low, gravelly noise rose from his tiny torso. The sound an old man might make when grumpy or congested or waking up tired.

“You’re not sure?”

“The teachers are always saying stay home if you’re sick. So you don’t give it.” Tossing the action figure to the side, the way you’d fling lint. It hit the wall, dropped silently to the bed. “She stays home.”

“There are different types of sickness,” I said.

Silence.

“The sicknesses your teachers talk about are colds. The sickness Mommy has you can’t get from anyone else. Ever.”

He retrieved the green warrior, tried to pull off the head. Failed and discarded it again.

“Do you know what Mommy’s sickness is called?”

“I gave her a cold.”

“Colds are different. You can catch colds from someone else if they sneeze on you.”

“One time I was real sick.” Touching his abdomen. He tossed the green figure across the room. It hit the wall, fell to the floor.

I said, “One time your tummy hurt?”

“Before.”

“Before Mommy got sick.”

Grunt. “I was coughing.”

“Mommy coughs.”

“Yeah.”

“There are different kinds of coughs, Chad. You didn’t give Mommy’s sickness to her. I promise.”

Rocking on stubby feet, he got off the bed, dropped to his knees as if praying, searched underneath the frame, and pulled out a drawing tablet.

Professional-quality Bristol board. A handwritten note on the cover said To My Genius Artist, Your Worshipful Ma-mah in loopy, oversized red script.

Chad let go of the pad. It slapped carpet. He touched his belly again. “I throwed up.”

“When your tummy was—”

“Mommy throws up. All the time.”

“People throw up for all kinds of reasons, Chad.”

He kicked the drawing tablet. Did it again, harder.

“Even though everyone keeps saying you didn’t give Mommy her sickness, you’re worried you did.”

His toe nudged the pad.