Chapter 1

Alice Farley had a scoring system for family matters.

Urgency ran from one to ten, and only anything above a seven earned her personal attention.

But that standard only ever applied to me and our son.

When her assistant, Kevin Hughes, had a stomachache, she dropped a multimillion-dollar contract and drove him to the hospital herself.

When our son spiked a fever of one hundred and six, she gave it a four.

"Kids get fevers all the time. Not worth a special trip."

When our son was moved to the ICU, she still only gave it a six.

"One point short. Doesn't meet my threshold for coming."

I asked her, "Exactly how many points does it take before you'll come?"

On the other end of the line, her voice was flat.

"Seven is the life-or-death line. He isn't there yet."

Later, the doctor issued a critical-condition notice.

I took a photo and sent it to her. "This one. How many points is this worth?"

Two hours later, she finally replied.

"Seven. I'll come after tomorrow's board meeting."

But half an hour after that, I saw Kevin's new post pop up in my feed.

In the photo, Alice was crouched in a downpour, searching for a cat that had run off on him.

The caption read: "I just mentioned I was scared, and she came out through the night to be with me. Ms. Farley says my problems are always a ten."

I stared at that line for a long time, and then I laughed.

So the seven-point life-or-death line had never been a measure of how serious a thing was.

It was only her measure of whether she loved the person or not.

I put my phone away, signed my name on our son's critical-condition notice, and calmly messaged my lawyer.

"Get the divorce papers ready."

...

The lawyer's reply came fast.

"Papers drafted tonight. Custody of the child, the current home, and future medical costs, do you want those handled too?"

I stared at the red light over the ICU door and typed one line.

"Custody comes to me. Everything else is negotiable."

The doctor came out and handed me a medication consent form.

"Arthur Farley had a febrile seizure, and the lung infection is still getting worse. We want to adjust the treatment plan. Please sign."

I had just taken the pen when I heard footsteps behind me.

Alice had arrived.

The hem of her coat was soaked through, and there were a few fresh scratches on the back of her hand.

A nurse behind her held antiseptic and gauze, pressing her to see to the wound first.

She glanced at the ICU door, her tone level.

"What did the doctor say?"

"Febrile seizure. The infection's worse."

Alice lifted her wrist and checked the time.

"If he's still being treated, then it hasn't reached the worst point. Sending me seven messages in a row only clouds my judgment."

The doctor frowned. "Ms. Farley, a critical-condition notice isn't the family throwing a tantrum. The boy was already in respiratory failure when he came in. Any later, and the outcome would have been impossible to predict."

"I respect the professional judgment."

Alice took the consent form, her eyes running over the risk clauses.

"But he went from a one-hundred-and-six fever to critical in only a few hours. I need to look into whether a deterioration that fast has anything to do with a treatment error."

I looked at the injury on the back of her hand.

"Did you find the cat?"

She paused for a beat.

"I found it."

"So Kevin mentions he's scared and it's worth half an hour of standing in the rain. Arthur ends up in the ICU and it's only worth questioning the doctor?"

Alice set the form back down in front of me.

"You can't lump the two together. Kevin has a panic disorder. During an episode he can hurt himself. Arthur is in the hospital, with doctors responsible for him."

"He's only six."

"Precisely because he's our son, he can't grow up learning to cry and make a scene the moment something happens."

An alarm went off inside the ICU.

A nurse ran in, and in the instant the door opened, I saw Arthur's thin little arms strapped to the sides of the bed, his whole face buried under an oxygen mask.

My legs gave out, and I only kept my feet by catching the wall.

Alice reached out and steadied my arm.

"Don't scare yourself over nothing."

I shook her off.

"Go back."

"You kept pushing me to come, and now you're telling me to leave?"

"The lawyer will contact you."

Alice's eyes went dark.

"What lawyer?"

Before I could answer, a nurse leaned out of the ICU.

"He's awake, but he's not very clear. He keeps calling for his mother."

Alice pushed the door open and went in.

Arthur heard the footsteps and forced his eyes open.

"Mommy."

She bent down and touched his forehead.

"I'm here. Where does it hurt?"

The fever had left Arthur's voice hoarse.

"Daddy said you'd only come if it was a seven."

Alice's hand went still.

"Why is your father telling you things like that?"

"So am I a seven now?"

She didn't answer.

Arthur waited a few seconds, then carefully reached out, trying to touch her cuff.

Just as his fingertips were about to reach it, Alice's phone rang.

Kevin's voice came through shaking, thick with panic.

"Alice, Fluffy's been throwing up ever since we got him back. The vet says he might have swallowed something. I can't do the exam on my own..."

Alice straightened up.

"Send me the address. I'm on my way."

Arthur's hand fell back to the sheet.

I planted myself in front of the bed.

"He just woke up."

"The animal hospital isn't far. I'll come back once it's handled."

"Alice. He's calling for you."

She tucked the corner of the blanket around Arthur, her voice still calm.

"He's already seen me."

At the door, she turned back to look at me.

"Whatever you want to say, save it until Arthur's fever breaks. Don't bring your resentment toward me in front of the child."

After the door closed, Arthur looked at the empty spot where she'd been and asked me quietly,

"Daddy, does the kitten hurt more than I do?"