The kind that comes with a date and a unit name printed across it.
The kind you get when you’ve been through security.
The kind that doesn’t end up in a child’s backpack by accident.
My fingers moved before my brain finished catching up.
I picked it up.
And I read the unit line.
Oncology.
My lungs forgot how to work.
I looked up at Lily, who was happily crunching crackers at the counter, swinging her legs like nothing in the world was wrong.
“Sweetheart,” I said, forcing my voice to stay neutral, “where did you get this?”
She paused. Chewed slowly. Looked at me with that expression kids use when they’re deciding whether a question is safe.
Then she said something that made my blood go cold.
“Daddy said it’s our secret weekend.”
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