No one else must ever know about the test results. Not Grant. Not Allison. Not even Adam. Not ever. For the rest of his life Adam would have to write “mold” on forms that asked whether he had any allergies. All anyone needed to know was that his headaches were improving, and this, Suzanne must convince them, was because he no longer was being exposed to mold from their house in Willard Park.

So what was causing the headaches? Suzanne now had a probable answer thanks to the neurologist, who had received the results of the blood tests she’d ordered: Adam had Lyme disease.

Suzanne knew about Lyme disease, of course. A tick bite followed by a bull’s-eye rash and flulike symptoms—none of which had happened to Adam, Suzanne argued, but lab results were lab results. Apparently not everyone who got Lyme had flulike symptoms or a bull’s-eye rash. Who knew? The neurologist theorized that the headaches, neck ache, and joint pain were probably the result of Lyme meningitis, which was similar to aseptic meningitis, but caused by the Lyme bacteria. He’d probably gotten the bite when they went to Chincoteague Island at the end of the summer, home to myriad pastoral, tick-infested deer.

It was good to have a diagnosis at long last, even better to know that he didn’t need further treatment. The Lyme titers showed that he had had Lyme, but no longer did, thanks to the double dose of antibiotics the pediatrician prescribed, which, coincidentally, worked to combat not only sinus infections, but Lyme disease. Symptoms could last a long time with Lyme, months or even years, but they had lessened somewhat and would continue to abate, Suzanne was told.

Suzanne wanted to feel relieved, and she did, of course. Adam was becoming himself again. He’d returned to school after winter break, and was catching up on what he’d missed. Suzanne would have begun to get her life back again had she not destroyed her house.

If only they were rich, they could rent a nice house until the insurance company came through with a big check. That was misfortune number four: their impoverished-ness. Suzanne was loath to take out a loan on top of the one they owed her mother. It didn’t matter if the house was no longer habitable. They still owed her. They might have used their own stocks to pay the rent if they hadn’t invested so much in Sweet Dreams. And so they were stuck living at the Millers’ for the time being, stuck in a tiny cottage, all three of them sleeping in one attic room. Six of them sharing a bathroom, she and Grant sharing a futon.