• • •

Cousin It dances around my legs as I walk into the foyer—just as Rosaleen is coming down the stairs, carrying a tray that’s bigger than she is. She smiles when she sees me.

“Hi, Jake. When’d you get here?”

Placing the key on the front table, I take the tray from her hands. “Where’s your aunt?”

“She’s upstairs in the bathroom. She told me to get Ronan’s bottle from the refrigerator.”

My eyes cut to the upper landing. “Okay. You go do that, I’m going to check on your aunt.”

I walk up the stairs and down the hall, following the sound of someone barfing up their stomach lining the way Hansel and Gretel followed bread crumbs. I stand in the bathroom doorway, casting a shadow on Chelsea’s crumpled form as she hunches over the toilet, holding on to the sides of the bowl like her life depends on it. She’s in a loose-fitting black T-shirt and sweatpants. Her hair is pulled back, a few strands damp with perspiration clinging to the back of her neck.

I crouch down next to her, my hand on her back.

Once her heaves subside, she wipes her mouth with a tissue and groans at me. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

“Rosaleen called. I used the key that was under the mat. You shouldn’t keep it there.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whimpers. “Run. Save yourself.”

“When the hell did this start?”

She closes her eyes, panting. “Monday—in the middle of the night. It started with Raymond, and the rest of us fell like dominoes.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I called the neighbor—Walter’s mother. She said she couldn’t risk one of her kids catching it. Her daughter has a pageant this weekend. She said she was sorry.”

Nice. Because sorry is so fucking helpful.

Chelsea drags herself to the sink and splashes water on her face and in her mouth. “I have to check on the kids.” She moves toward the door and almost cracks her head on the sink as her knees give out.

But I catch her, scooping her up into my arms. “Whoa—easy.” My voice turns firm. Kind of pissed off. “You’re not checking on anyone. You’re going to bed. Where’s your room?”

“No, I have to—”

“Don’t fucking argue with me. Where’s your room?”

She seems to give in—or she just can’t keep her head up anymore. It rests against my arm. “My room’s downstairs, but I want to stay up here—in case they need me. Can you take me to the guest room? Last door on the right.”

I follow her directions to a plain room with yellow walls and a white bedspread. I lay her in the middle of the bed gently. Her eyes crack open, shiny and miserable, gazing up at me.

“I can’t be sick,” she whispers.

“It’s a little late for that.”

“Aunt Chelsea!” one of the boys calls.

And it’s like she’s been electrified. Her eyes spring open and her head jerks as she tries to pull herself up into a sitting position.

“Lie down,” I tell her, guiding her back.

“I have to—”

“Chelsea, I’m here. Let me help you,” I bark, ready to shake her at this point. I brush her hair back from her stark-white—but still fucking beautiful—face. “I’ll make sure the kids are okay.”

She stares at me for a moment, like I’m an apparition. Or a dream. And then slowly, her eyes well with tears. They trickle silently out of the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks.

And every one fucking destroys me.

“Don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

She breathes out a shaky breath and wipes her cheeks. “I’m just . . . I’m so tired, Jake. I’m so tired.”

For the first time, I think about what it must’ve been like for her . . . after she got that phone call. How she probably raced around, throwing necessities in a bag, figuring she’d send for the rest of her things later. How she had to withdraw from school, probably break the lease on her apartment—upend her entire fucking existence.

And then she was here—so needed, all the time. Having to make a hundred different arrangements, care for six kids who couldn’t possibly care for themselves. And not just feeding them, homework, getting them to school, but helping them navigate an unimaginable grief. She had to keep them from falling apart.

And she had to do it completely on her own.

And I know, without a doubt, that she hasn’t taken a second for herself. To process her own pain, get a handle on her own sorrow and loss. There couldn’t have been any time. She’s been running on that hamster wheel for so long—it was only a matter of time before she completely crashed.

“Then sleep, Chelsea. I swear everything will be okay.”

She smiles even as more tears come. She grasps my hand, holding it tight.

“Thank you.”

• • •

After that, I do triage. War-zone mode. I check the bedrooms—Rory and Raymond are smooshed together in the bottom bunk of their bed with matching wretched faces, each with his own barf bucket beside him. Riley and Regan are in Riley’s bed, with a wastebasket next to them, on the verge of sleep. I pay close attention to the two-year-old, who gazes at me with glassy eyes.

“Hiii,” she rasps exhaustedly.

I run my hand through her baby-fine hair. “Hey, kiddo.”