He looked at me.
“Excuse me?”
“It could be
a labeling mistake.”
“It is.”
“It could also be unrelated to the twins.”
He stared at me.
Then nodded once.
Good.
We shut off the east-zone additive system immediately.
Not the ventilation.
The scent system.
Windows opened.
The boys were moved temporarily to guest rooms on another floor.
No one told them they had been “poisoned.”
Because we did not know that.
I explained:
“We found something in the air system we want checked.”
Jacob looked at me.
“Is it gross?”
“Probably.”
Jonah asked:
“Do we get new rooms?”
“For tonight.”
“Can we take the dinosaur lamp?”
“Yes.”
That was enough.
Children deserve information they can carry.
Not adult fear.
Within two hours, Nathan had hired an independent environmental-health firm.
Not one of his usual contractors.
I insisted on that.
He surprised me by agreeing.
“They report to you?” I asked.
“No.”
“To Dr. Reeves?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“To a lawyer?”
He frowned.
“Why would that matter?”
“Because if the first question is who’s liable, people may stop asking what happened.”
He stared.
Then called another number.
“Independent industrial hygienist. No legal reporting line.”
Better.
Dr. Reeves clearly hated being excluded.
He stood near the staircase.
“This still doesn’t explain everything.”
“I agree,” I said.
He looked surprised.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are we tearing apart ventilation?”
“Because if we find something irrelevant, we cross it off.”
He studied me differently.
Not respect.
Not yet.
Maybe less contempt.
Nathan looked toward his sons.
They sat on the guest-room floor building with blocks.
Tired.
But engaged.
He watched them for a long time.
“Do they always get worse in winter?”
I turned.
“What?”
He frowned.
“They’re worse in winter.”
“Better when traveling?”
His face changed.
“Sometimes.”
Dr. Reeves looked at him.
“You never told me that.”
Nathan’s eyes sharpened.
“I did.”
“
When?”
