“Just warm water.” Maxine let out a small sound—half whine, half plea—and reached for the cup. “It’s tea,” Mike said flatly. Eleanor’s shoulders stiffened. “She asked for it.” We asked you not to,” he replied. Eleanor’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I wasn’t going to deny her something that soothes her,” she said.
“You don’t refuse a child when they’re asking for comfort.” Mike stepped closer. He could see bits of plant matter clinging to the rim of the mug. Tiny petals. Pale stems. “You don’t know what she’s ingesting,” he said. “I know my garden,” Eleanor snapped. “Better than you ever will.” That night, after they brought Maxine home, her fever climbed higher than it ever had before.