“Lie down,” I tell her, guiding her back.

“I have to—”

“Chelsea, I’m here. Let me help you,” I bark, ready to shake her at this point. I brush her hair back from her stark-white—but still fucking beautiful—face. “I’ll make sure the kids are okay.”

She stares at me for a moment, like I’m an apparition. Or a dream. And then slowly, her eyes well with tears. They trickle silently out of the corners of her eyes and down her cheeks.

And every one fucking destroys me.

“Don’t cry. Why are you crying?”

She breathes out a shaky breath and wipes her cheeks. “I’m just . . . I’m so tired, Jake. I’m so tired.”

For the first time, I think about what it must’ve been like for her . . . after she got that phone call. How she probably raced around, throwing necessities in a bag, figuring she’d send for the rest of her things later. How she had to withdraw from school, probably break the lease on her apartment—upend her entire fucking existence.

And then she was here—so needed, all the time. Having to make a hundred different arrangements, care for six kids who couldn’t possibly care for themselves. And not just feeding them, homework, getting them to school, but helping them navigate an unimaginable grief. She had to keep them from falling apart.

And she had to do it completely on her own.

And I know, without a doubt, that she hasn’t taken a second for herself. To process her own pain, get a handle on her own sorrow and loss. There couldn’t have been any time. She’s been running on that hamster wheel for so long—it was only a matter of time before she completely crashed.

“Then sleep, Chelsea. I swear everything will be okay.”

She smiles even as more tears come. She grasps my hand, holding it tight.

“Thank you.”

• • •

After that, I do triage. War-zone mode. I check the bedrooms—Rory and Raymond are smooshed together in the bottom bunk of their bed with matching wretched faces, each with his own barf bucket beside him. Riley and Regan are in Riley’s bed, with a wastebasket next to them, on the verge of sleep. I pay close attention to the two-year-old, who gazes at me with glassy eyes.

“Hiii,” she rasps exhaustedly.

I run my hand through her baby-fine hair. “Hey, kiddo.”

Then I head down to the kitchen, where Rosaleen is perched on the counter beside her baby brother, holding a bottle for him. She says she knows how to do it—that she’s watched her mother and Chelsea do it a thousand times. Thank fuck for observant kids.

“But you’re gonna have to burp him,” she tells me, and then explains how it’s done. Carefully, I lift him from the seat, holding him with straight arms like a bomb that could detonate at any moment. I follow Rosaleen’s instructions and bring him to my shoulder, patting and rubbing his back.

“Like this?” I ask the seven-year-old.

She nods encouragingly.

“You are officially my second in command,” I tell her. “You and me together are gonna kick this virus’s ass.”

She giggles. “Okay.”

I feel a ridiculous amount of pride when Ronan lets out a deep, rumbling belch that any grown man would be impressed to produce. I’m not going to tell the others, but I think he’s my favorite.

As I congratulate him, I notice his ass feels heavy.

Wet.

I look at his sister. “I think he needs to be changed.”

Her face turns wary and she raises her little hands. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a kid.”

“Now you play the kid card?” I ask her.

She shrugs without pity.

Okay. I can do this.

I’ve been arrested—spent time in lockup with genuinely dangerous guys. I’ve been in street fights without rules where no one was coming to break it up—and I’ve won. I’ve conquered the insurmountable challenge of earning a law degree and dealing with the self-centered jackasses who are my clients without committing aggravated assault.

It’s a diaper. How hard could it be?

I carry Ronan to his room, lay him on the pad on his dresser, and look him in the eyes. “Work with me, buddy, okay?”

Then, with one hand on his chest so he doesn’t roll away, I Google it.

Gotta love modern technology. Bomb-making and baby-changing diagrams at your fingertips. I get the diaper off, get him cleaned up with the wipes. I squeeze some white pasty shit out of a tube onto his ass, because I’m not sure if he’s red, but it’s there, so I’ll use it. I lift his kicking legs and slide a fresh diaper underneath him.

And then—without warning—a hot stream of piss, like a fireman’s hose, arches in the air, coating my shirt with expert aim.

I glare down at the baby. “Seriously, man?”

He just smiles around the hand he’s chewing on.

Fucking Google didn’t mention this.

• • •

Once I get Ronan settled in his swing, I find Rosaleen in the living room. We walk to the kitchen to check out our supplies, but she stops just inside the kitchen door. Her face goes blank and frighteningly ashen.

“You okay, Rosaleen?”

She opens her mouth to answer—but what comes out is a burst of chunky yellow vomit, like lumpy pancake mix gone sour.

Man down.

She coughs and stares, horrified, at the disaster on the floor, splattered on her shoes and on her sparkly T-shirt. Then she starts to cry. “I’m sorry, Jake.”

Something in my chest swells at her tears, making everything feel too tight. I kneel down beside her, my hand rubbing circles on her back. “It’s okay. Rosaleen—it’s just puke. It’s not a big deal.”