MY SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER CLUTCHED MY HAND AND WHISPERED, “GRANDPA… MOM PUTS SOMETHING IN MY JUICE.” I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST A CHILD’S FEAR—UNTIL A MEMPHIS DOCTOR READ HER TESTS, FROZE, AND WENT SILENT FOR FOUR LONG SECONDS.

She watched my face carefully, looking for trouble, looking for whether telling me had been a mistake.

I smiled. Not too wide. Just enough.

“How about this,” I said. “Since I owe you birthday ice cream, you and me go for a little drive.”

“Can I bring Grace?”

“Grace is mandatory.”

She slid off the bed. Wobbled once.

I pretended not to notice and held out my hand.

We walked downstairs together.

Vanessa was still in the kitchen, still on the phone, still laughing. She leaned against the island with a mug in one hand, looking so normal that for half a heartbeat I wondered whether I had misunderstood what Ruby meant.

Then Ruby stumbled against my leg.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And the doubt was gone.

“I’m taking her out for a birthday treat,” I said from the doorway. “Just for a little while.”

Vanessa waved without turning all the way around. “Sure, fine.”

No questions.

Not where. Not how long. Not whether Ruby had already had a snack or medicine or homework to do.

Nothing.

That bothered me more than it should have at the time. I wouldn’t understand how much more until later.