Caleb Torres knew something was wrong before he put his key in the lock.
The porch light was on in the middle of the afternoon. The curtains were pulled shut. A delivery bag sat unopened beside the welcome mat, the paper handles damp from the morning rain.
He had been gone only four days.
Four days in Phoenix, sitting through safety certification classes under fluorescent lights, drinking bad hotel coffee, and counting the hours until he could come home to Marisol and their three-year-old daughter, Wren. He had imagined Wren racing down the hall with her pink socks half-off. He had imagined Marisol laughing at him for bringing airport pretzels like they were a gift.
Instead, when he opened the front door, he heard a cough.
It was not the quick little cough Wren sometimes faked when she wanted medicine because it tasted like cherries.
It was deep, tired, and painful.
“Dada?” Wren called from the kitchen, her voice thin as thread.
Caleb dropped his carry-on inside the entryway and stepped in.
The house looked like a storm had passed through and decided to stay.
Tiny socks were scattered across the living room rug. A blanket had been kicked halfway under the couch. On the coffee table sat a bowl of untouched applesauce, a crumpled tissue, a thermometer case, and a bottle of fever reducer with the cap missing. The air smelled of burnt butter, wet towels, and the sharp sweetness of children’s medicine.
Then he saw Marisol.
She stood at the stove in leggings and an old gray sweater that had slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was twisted into a loose knot, but most of it had fallen around her face. One cheek was flushed from the stove heat, the other pale with exhaustion. Wren clung to her chest, limp and hot-looking, one hand curled around the collar of Marisol’s sweater.
With her free hand, Marisol tried to slide a spatula under grilled cheese in a pan. A towel was tucked under Wren’s chin. The child’s eyes were watery and unfocused.
At the breakfast table, Caleb’s father, Hank, sat with one boot crossed over his knee, watching fishing videos on his phone. The sound of splashing water and a man laughing played at full volume. Beside him, Caleb’s cousin Derek leaned back in a chair, texting with one thumb while eating chips straight from a family-size bag.
Two empty plates sat between them.
A third plate, untouched, sat near the stove.
Marisol looked up when she heard Caleb’s steps.
For half a second, relief opened her whole face.
Then it disappeared, like she had remembered she was not allowed to need it.
“You’re early,” she said.
“My last session got canceled.” Caleb looked at Wren. “How long has she been sick?”
Marisol shifted Wren higher on her hip. “Since Monday night. Fever, cough. She hasn’t slept much.”
It was Thursday.
Caleb turned toward his father. “You’ve been here since when?”
Hank muted his phone with visible annoyance. He was a broad man with silver hair, a hard jaw, and the permanent expression of someone waiting for the world to disappoint him.
“Tuesday afternoon,” Hank said. “Tree came down near my driveway in the storm. Power went out. Your wife told us to stay here.”
Derek lifted his hand
