I fire up my Porsche and floor it to the nearest all-night drug store. The pimply-faced kid working the register helps me findwhat I need, and I toss him an extra twenty for the quick service. I'm back in under fifteen minutes with the thermometer and Tylenol, then I race around gathering a cloth and a cup of water.
One hundred and two point four.
"Okay." Maeve exhales through her nose. "Okay. That's high but it's not emergency room-high. It's probably some daycare crud that’s going around." She measures the medicine with a steady hand. "Come on, baby, drink this for me."
Oisin turns his face away and wails.
"I know. I know it's yucky. Please, sweetheart.”
"What if it comes in a special cup?” I ask.
They both look at me.
"Hold on." I take the medicine cup, disappear into the bathroom off our bedroom, and come back with the little dose of Tylenol poured into the cap of my mouthwash bottle—which happens to be shaped like a tiny castle turret, realizing for the first time that whoever designs mouthwash bottles is a genius. "This is Knight Elixir. Very rare. Only brave boys get it because if they drink it all down, they become knights.”
Oisin peers up at me. Eyes glassy, cheeks blazing, but suspicious.
"I not a knight."
"Not yet. Because you haven't drunk the elixir.” I crouch to his level. “Drink it down, and it’ll be official. You’ll be able to fight dragons.”
He looks at me quizzically.
I shrug. “I don't make the rules, buddy."
There's a long thought process happening behind his eyes. Then his small hand reaches out, takes the turret, and downs the whole dose.
"There it is." I bow to him. "Sir Oisin the dragon slayer.”
"That was shameless," Maeve murmurs.
“Buteffective," I whisper back, and, over the head of a sick three-year-old, my wife’s eyes meet mine, and our gazes hold.
Then Oisin throws up on my shirt.
It's an impressive amount for such a small person. Maeve gasps and lunges for the damp cloth, apologizing like she personally aimed him at me. I hold the kid out in front of me and hear myself saying, "Good man, better out than in," while pasta from two hours ago sticks to my chest.
"Lorcan, I'm so sorry—give me the shirt, I'll?—"
"Maeve." I sit Oisin down and take Maeve by the shoulders. She's already spinning frantically. "It's a shirt. I own others. Breathe."
"He's sick and it's our third night and you probably had other plans—" She stops and presses her lips together.
"Hey." I wait until she looks at me. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
That’s not entirely true. I’d rather be fucking my wife all night long, but not while we’re worried about a sick kid.
I strip off the ruined shirt and prepare for a long night.
We fall into a rhythm without discussing it. She monitors temperature and medicine timing. I replace cool cloths with fresh ones, and change the bedding. A little after midnight, the fever spikes to one-oh-three, and Oisin gets weepy and thrashy, kicking off blankets and then sobbing because he's cold, and Maeve walks him in circles while I call the O'Rourke family doctor—who answers on the second ring at midnight, because he's paid to—and confirms what she already knew. Fluids. Fever reducer. Watch him. Call back if it hits one-oh-four.
"You have a doctor on call," Maeve says when I hang up. "At midnight."
"Perk of the family."
She stares at me over Oisin's damp curls. He won't settle for her. I can see her exhaustion, but his fevered little body is too miserable to be consoled even by MaeMae.
"Give him here," I say.
