She shakes her head, chuckling. “I thought I’d find you here bitching and moaning about doing housework and you’ve color-coded shit.” She waves at the whiteboard. “Though…that’s a bit ridiculous, you know that right?”
I look at the board and shrug. “You say tomato, and I say that a color-coded snack rotation means that I’m not feeding my kids the same damn thing every day.”
Claire drinks her coffee. “I thought you’d struggle.”
“With what?”
“Surgery is control. Family is connection. One’s a skill. The other takes heart muscle.”
I give her a flat look, amusement curling low in my chest. “I’ve stopped skipping heart day at the gym.”
“Speaking of gyms, Paul says you aren’t going to one.”
That makes me sigh. “I go for a run every day after I get the kids off to camp or whatever. I just…I just don’t feel like going to the hospital.”
Claire dramatically slaps a hand to her chest. “Youdon’t feel like going to the hospital?”
“I know. I’m just as surprised.”
“Can you give Paul whatever it is you’re drinking?”she jokes and then adds, “But you might want to do something about that.” She points at my whiteboardagain.
“You’re just envious of my organizational skills,” I tell her arrogantly. Right then, my phone buzzes, and it’s Mikaela’s camp.
I pick up, hands shaking. It’s never a good thing is it to have the camp call you in the middle of the day?
“Dr. Prescott?” a woman says. “This is Nurse Dalton from Roland Park Camp. Mikaela’s running a fever.”
My fatherly instincts fire instantly. “I’m on my way.”
I hurriedly get Claire out of the house, and ten minutes later, I am at the campgrounds.
Mikaela’s curled up on a little cot, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her forehead. She lifts her head when she sees me.
“Daddy?”
“Hey, Peanut.” I crouch beside her, smoothing her hair. “Let’s get you home.”
She nods, eyes glassy. “My head hurts.”
“I’ve got you.”
“My daddy is a doctor,” Mikaela tells Nurse Dalton, who gives me a perfunctory smile.
At home, I carry her inside and set her gently on the couch.
She curls onto her side immediately, small andlimp with fever. I grab the soft gray blanket she loves and drape it over her legs, tucking it around her the way she likes.
“Too tight?” I ask.
She shakes her head, eyes half-closed.
I go to the cabinet, pour the right dose of children’s Tylenol into the tiny plastic cup, and kneel beside her.
“Okay, peanut. This’ll help.”
She sits up just enough to sip it, grimacing at the taste before sinking back into the cushions. I get her water bottle, fill it with cold water and a handful of ice, and place it within reach.
“Movie?” I ask.
