That was when the panic became real.
It was not the kind Caleb could cry through.
It was the kind that made his chest feel too small for his lungs.
His mother had been sick for weeks.
She had hidden it badly, pretending the cough was nothing, pretending the fever was from working too many shifts, pretending the dizziness would pass after a glass of water.
Caleb had noticed everything.
He noticed the medicine bottles she never refilled.
He noticed the envelopes from clinics and pharmacies tucked under the cereal box.
He noticed the way she counted change at the kitchen table after he went to bed, whispering numbers like prayers that kept coming out wrong.
That morning, she had finally admitted she needed to go to the free clinic.
They had filled the Civic with the last few dollars of gas they could afford.