Page 135 of When We Burn

I hear Blake’s vehicle pull up, and he knocks once before opening the unlocked door, and he smiles at us as he steps inside, carrying a black case.

“You have an old-fashioned doctor’s bag.” I grin at him. “That’s so cool.”

Blake laughs and kneels in front of us. “Hey, cupcake. Did you miss me?”

“I always miss you,” she says to him. “But I don’t feel good.”

Blake’s brown eyes sober, and he sighs, watching her. “I can see that. Let’s have a look.”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out his stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, and the many other tools that are usually in an exam room, and he gets to work. She stays on my lap, but he has her lean forward.

“You’re breathing fast,” he murmurs, his eyes closed as he listens to her lungs. “But you sound clear. Does it hurt to breathe?”

“No.”

He looks in her mouth and her ears, and he takes her temperature several times.

“No fever.”

The timer on the oven goes off, and I move Birdie off my lap so I can go take the cookies out of the oven.

After pulling that batch out, I put another pan in, set the timer, and then return to my baby.

“She sweated out during her nap,” I tell him. “She said she doesn’t have to throw up, but she’s been dizzy.”

He frowns, looking at her. “Why can’t I figure you out, cupcake?”

“I have a question.” He turns to me, listening, and I clear my throat. “I know I’m not a doctor?—”

“I want to hear what you have to say. You live with her, Dani. Ask.”

“Could she have celiac disease? I had a roommate in college who did, and her symptoms were mostly different, but I’ve been wondering about it.”

Blake chews on his lip and looks back to Birdie.

“We haven’t tested her for it, but we should. I didn’t consider that it could be a gastrointestinal thing. I was thinking endocrine. We even considered cystic fibrosis and a primary immunodeficiency. We screened her for cancers right away, and thank fuck those were all negative. Celiac is not typical in kids, but our girl likes to be unique.”

I smile at Birdie, who’s dozing against the couch.

“Thanks for the idea.” Blake stands and, to my surprise, pulls me into a hug. “Thank you for being so good to them, by the way.”

“I love them.” I snuggle against him, accepting the comfort he’s offering, just for a moment. “And I want her to feel better.”

“I do, too.” He steps back and sighs, and then, to our horror, Birdie wakes up, leans over, and tosses her Thanksgiving dinner onto the floor.

“So much for using the bowl,” I mutter, as Birdie starts to cry, and Blake and I spur into action, cleaning up and stripping Birdie down, because she managed to get it all over herself, the blankets,everywhere.“I love that you never do anything halfway,” I say to her.

“If you’re gonna do it,” Blake agrees, “do it big.”

Blake puts the blankets in the laundry as I get Birdie in the shower, and when I’m drying her off and putting her in clean pajamas, I can hear the carpet-cleaning machine going in the living room.

“Wow, Doctor Blake cleans carpets.” I kiss her on the forehead, and Birdie finally smiles at me. “Are you starting to feel better, my love?”

“I’m tired.” She yawns. “But I feel a little better.”

“Good. Maybe you ate something bad, and you just had to get it out of there.”

Screech.

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