The screen remained dark, showing only my own worried reflection.
By Tuesday morning, the silence in our kitchen felt heavier than the damp autumn air outside. Johnny sat in his blue booster seat, staring down at his bowl of oatmeal as if the oats were small gray stones. I held the half-empty milk carton, waiting for him to pick up his favorite blue plastic spoon, but his hand stayed tucked inside the sleeve of his striped pajama shirt.
“Just a few bites, sweetie,” I said, setting the milk down on the yellow countertop.
Johnny did not look up. He took the blue spoon in his left hand, raised it an inch, and then let it drop. It clattered against the tray of his booster seat and bounced onto the linoleum floor, sliding under the edge of the refrigerator.
I knelt to retrieve it, the cold plastic smooth against my palm. Instead of washing it, I slid the blue spoon into the side pocket of my purse next to my work keys.
“Honestly, Johnny, we have to go,” I said, twisting my silver wedding band around my knuckle.
He clutched the satin edge of his blue blanket, pulling it up over his chin, his eyes wide and dark. He did not make a sound, not even his usual morning hum.
On Wednesday afternoon, the rain was tapping against the frosted glass of the pediatric exam room window. Dr. Adams sat on her low rolling stool, tapping her black pen against her metal clipboard. Johnny sat on the table with his knees pulled up to his chest, still holding his blue blanket.
“Let us take a quick look inside,” Dr. Adams said, her voice calm and steady. She reached for a wooden tongue depressor.
Johnny clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head so hard his cheeks wobbled.
“Now look,” Dr. Adams said, looking over her reading glasses at me. “We need to make sure those tonsils are happy, Johnny.”
