Autumn Chill

Notes on surviving quicksand.

My little girl woke up Saturday night struggling to breathe. Grunting and wheezing and disoriented. I watched the rise and fall of her chest with the phone to my ear. Each movement so precious. Some strain of drug-resistant pneumonia had torn through our home. It hit my son hard first. He’d lie in bed trembling and call out for me in pain in the dark. I…