She turned in his arms, her face full of sympathy. She brought her hands up, framing his face, her thumbs tracing the circles under his eyes. Then, she leaned in, her lips almost touching his ear, and spoke. Slowly. Deliberately. Each word a carefully launched life raft across the muffled sea.
Leo's lower lip trembled. He didn't understand sickness or Eustachian tubes. He only understood that his dad, his audience, his playmate, was unreachable. He clutched the rocket ship to his chest and ran from the room. ears stuffy from cold
Leo repeated himself, his little face crumpling with confusion. Alex leaned closer, tilting his good ear—was there a good one?—toward his son. He still couldn't make it out. The gap between them, usually filled with laughter and silly noises, was now a chasm of static. She turned in his arms, her face full of sympathy
The rest of the world was a distant radio station playing on the wrong frequency. Slowly
Alex saw the flash of red construction paper. He saw the enthusiastic, slightly crooked drawing of a triangle with fire coming out the bottom. He saw his son's proud, expectant face. But the boy's voice was a tiny, faraway squeak, like a mouse on a microphone.
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