She said it was impossible to rule out the possibility that it did bite one of us, because we were asleep when it came in.

“But I would know if a bat bit me!” I said. “I would have woken up!”

“Probably. But it’s not worth the risk.”

“Why? What happens if you get rabies?”

“There’s no cure for rabies, Bea.”

Oh.

“What about Red?” I asked her.

“Red gets a rabies shot every year. He’s safe.”

“How many shots is it?” I asked.

She didn’t know.

“How big is the needle?” Dennis Mason had told me once that rabies shots are as long as a ruler and that they go straight into your stomach.

She didn’t know. We were going to the doctor in an hour, and the doctor would tell us everything.

“What if it’s ten shots?” I said.

She just looked at me.

“What if it’s twenty-three?”

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure it’s not twenty-three shots, Bea. And on the brighter side, Dad made us muffins and dropped them off on his way to work.”

We went to the kitchen to look at them. Dad had put them in a basket I recognized from his apartment. It was strange to see that basket on the table at Mom’s. And there was a note from Dad with a lot of exclamation points: “Chocolate chocolate-chip muffins!! I tripled the chocolate chips!!!”

“Triple chips?” I said, staring. There was no place on any muffin that wasn’t covered by a chocolate chip. “For breakfast?”

She pushed the basket toward me. Which made me think that Dennis Mason was probably right about the needle.

Mom slammed a couple of glasses of milk on the table, and I managed to eat two muffins, which is how I learned I’m pretty good in an emergency. Better than I used to be, anyway.

“These are so good,” Mom said.

“I know.”

She swallowed and sighed. “We should really get some window screens.”

Box

Dennis Mason was wrong about the bat shots. The needle is regular-size, and the shots just go in your arm like all the other ones. You don’t have to get twenty-three of them. You need five, which was still five more than I wanted.

The doctor was named Dr. Thomas, and she said we only needed two shots the first day. We’d have to come back for the other ones. Mom got hers first. When it was my turn, I put on my rock face, which is what I do when I don’t want anyone to know what I’m thinking. It’s the face that always makes Mom ask, “What’s going on in there?”

But this time she just took my hand and squeezed it.

Once, twice, three times:

I. Love. You.

I kept my rock face on but squeezed back two squeezes:

How. Much.

And waited.