The doctor’s brow furrowed immediately. “Tea?” he repeated. “What kind of tea?” “She said chamomile. Flowers. Other things,” Mike said, anger sharpening his voice. “We told her to stop.” The doctor exchanged a look with the nurse beside him. The pediatrician listened without interrupting.
Mike stood rigid beside the hospital bed, arms crossed, while Carrie spoke in short, careful bursts—about the fevers, the weight loss, the fatigue that came and went without warning. About Eleanor. About the tea. When Carrie finished, the doctor nodded once. He didn’t look surprised.