I followed her to her room. She went into her bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. Mo was furiously Googling Mom’s symptoms on WebMD, asking her if she was having trouble breathing or swallowing. She wasn’t, so at least we didn’t need to go to the ER.

“I’m gonna go wash off in my bathroom,” I said.

“Okay,” said Mom. “Hurry before it gets too bad.”

I went to my bathroom and closed the door. I turned on the faucet in the tub. The water spurted brown for a few seconds before clearing. I took off my shirt and stared at myself in the floor-length mirror that hung on the back of the door. I waited for the hives to appear.

I turned and tried to get a look at my back—nothing there, nothing on the curve of my belly where my shirt had risen up when I fell. No splotches on my legs. The cool feeling had completely disappeared. Maybe it was because the poison ivy was less toxic than other plants, but even still, welts and blisters should have been popping up all over me by now. I sat on the edge of the tub, watching the water swirl into the drain, feeling like I was missing something. Something important.

“Briseis?” Mo called from outside the bathroom door.

I turned off the water. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m gonna have to go into town and get some calamine lotion for Mom. She’s a mess.”

“Into town?” I laughed. “Sounds real country.”

“Right?” she said. “We’re already fitting in. How much calamine lotion do you need, love? You need a whole bottle?”

I looked at my reflection again. “I don’t think it got me as bad as Mom. I’m good.”

“Okay. Text me if you change your mind. Be back soon.”

I heard her leave and close the door. I stripped off the rest of my dirty clothes, washed my cut elbow, and changed into a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt I’d shoved in my bag before we left home. I went down the hall to check on Mom. I knocked on her door.

“Don’t come in here,” she said. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

I could tell by her tone that she was only half-joking, so I turned the handle and went in. She was sprawled across her bed in her underwear, staring up at the ceiling. Every inch of skin that wasn’t protected by her tank top or shorts when she fell was covered in welts.

“I want to scratch my skin off,” she said.

“Don’t,” I said. “That’ll make it worse.”

“It can get worse? Great.” She turned her head to look at me. “You’re not scratching. You didn’t get any on you?”