My concern had been met with venom. Now, as I watched her hand him the ash-filled mold, I felt nothing but dark, icy anticipation.
The ceiling fan whirred overhead, slicing through the stagnant air.
Just as I predicted, a sudden gust swept through the room, scattering the fine grey powder of Grandmother Henson's ashes. Ryan inhaled sharply. In an instant, his face went from pale to a suffocated purple. He dropped to a crouch, clawing at his throat, gasping for oxygen that wouldn't come.
Panic erupted in the living room.
Vivian shrieked, rushing over to pound on her son's back. "My baby! Ryan, say something!"
I stood outside a convenience store miles away, unwrapping a vanilla cone. The cold sweetness hit my tongue as I watched the chaos unfold on my phone screen. A farce, and I had a front-row seat.
My family swarmed around Ryan like headless chickens. My brother reached for his phone, hands shaking. "I'm calling an ambulance."
"No!" Vivian slapped his hand away. "We need to ask Grandmother first."
Mom chimed in, voice shrill. "Exactly. Hospitals just steal our money. I have a folk remedy. If the dice show a three, we treat him here."