“Oh my God,” Meg said.

I thought it.

“It might be,” Dr. Gurewich reiterated. “The good news about that is that even if it is epilepsy, drugs can control it. Epilepsy that shows in childhood does not mean a shortened life. If it is epilepsy, there will be drugs for the rest of her life.” She paused to study our faces. “Let’s do the tests and see what her blood tells us.”

“What about the vision thing?” I asked.

“That could be caused by the seizures. They are very mild, and I’m sure she doesn’t realize they’re happening.”

“That’s why she didn’t see my bishop?”

“Very likely. But we’ll keep an eye on the vision problem.”

The only good news you can hear when discussing your child’s welfare is that there is absolutely, positively nothing wrong. Sarah’s fear was palpable. She of course wanted to know what the doctor had said to us in private. I, of course, told her. Meg was unsure about whether to tell her; worse, she was uneasy. But anxiety was hardly her doing.

“The fact is, the doctor doesn’t know what’s wrong,” I told her.

“She says you’re fine,” Meg said.

“The worst could be that you have to take some medicine,” I said, quickly. “But she has to do the tests to figure out what medicine.”

“Did I have a seizure?” Sarah asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “It was a small one if you did.”

“What is a seizure?”

I pulled the car over, parked under the shade of a chinaberry tree. I looked at Meg and she nodded to me.

“Is it really bad?” Sarah asked.

“No, slug, it’s not really bad. Especially because we now know they’re happening. It’s as if you’re taking a tiny nap. Like a little short circuit in your brain.” (I was sorry I’d said “brain.” I was sorry I’d said “short circuit.”) “In a way we all have them from time to time. You’re just having a few more.”

“So, what does the doctor think I have?”

“She doesn’t think anything yet. It could be your diet, your shampoo, or your deodorant,” her mother said.

“I don’t use deodorant.”

“About that,” I said.

“Zach,” Meg complained.

But Sarah laughed.

Zenaida macroura. A left humerus from a pack rat nest and partial femur and proximal end of a tibiotarsus from the 20–25 cm level represents this resident species.

Without a lot of discussion, none at all, we deemed it best to behave as if there was little or nothing wrong. We were a family of idiots. Sarah went off to school the next day, a trouper, Meg held her office hours, and I went to campus and pretended to teach. Before class I stopped by the athletic center, what I grew up calling the gym, and tried to relieve some stress by knocking around a squash ball. A young Indian man I knew to be a graduate student in another of the sciences asked me if I wanted to play, and I politely told him no. I continued my punishment of the ball, attending to the sweet, startling silences between the bangs against the front wall and my racket.