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The fever came on a Tuesday.
Susannah had been quieter than usual at breakfast, picking at her blueberry pancakes while Jeremiah chattered about the bonfire they were planning for the weekend. Laurel noticed the way her best friend's hands trembled slightly around her coffee mug, how she kept shifting in her chair like she couldn't get comfortable.
"You okay, Beck?" Laurel asked, using the old nickname that always made Susannah smile.
"Just tired," Susannah replied, but her voice was rougher than normal, scratchy in a way that made Laurel's stomach clench with worry.
By noon, Susannah was burning up.
Conrad found her first, collapsed on the living room couch with a throw blanket pulled up to her chin despite the July heat streaming through the windows. Her face was flushed a deep red, sweat beading along her hairline even as she shivered violently.
"Mom?" His voice cracked on the word, and suddenly he sounded like the scared little boy he'd been years ago, afraid of thunderstorms and monsters under the bed.
Laurel appeared at his shoulder within seconds, her hand immediately going to Susannah's forehead. The heat radiating from her skin made Laurel's breath catch.
"She's burning up," Laurel whispered, more to herself than to Conrad. "How long has she been like this?"
"I don't know. She was fine this morning, wasn't she?" But even as Conrad said it, they both knew it wasn't true. Susannah hadn't been fine for months now. They'd all been pretending otherwise, dancing around the elephant in the room with forced cheerfulness and deliberate blindness.
Laurel's hands shook as she reached for the thermometer in the kitchen drawer. 102.8 degrees. High enough to be dangerous, especially for someone in Susannah's condition.
"Should we call Dr. Martinez?" Conrad asked, hovering anxiously as Laurel smoothed damp hair back from Susannah's feverish face.
"Let's try to bring it down first," Laurel said, though her voice betrayed her worry. "Can you get me some ice water and washcloths? And the Tylenol from upstairs."
Conrad nodded and disappeared, grateful to have something to do. Laurel settled onto the edge of the couch, her fingers gentle as she brushed sweat-matted strands away from Susannah's temples. Her best friend's breathing was shallow and rapid, punctuated by small, pained sounds that made Laurel's chest ache.
"Hey, Beck," she whispered. "I'm here, okay? You're going to be fine."
Susannah's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy with fever. "Laur?" Her voice was barely a whisper.
"Yeah, it's me. You've got a fever, but we're going to take care of you."
"The kids..." Susannah tried to sit up, but Laurel gently pressed her back down.
"The kids are fine. Belly and Steven are at the beach with Jeremiah. Conrad's here helping me." Laurel kept her voice calm and steady, even as panic clawed at her insides. "Just rest."
Conrad returned with supplies, his face pale and drawn. Together, they worked to cool Susannah down – cold compresses on her forehead and wrists, small sips of ice water when she could manage them, a fan positioned to blow cool air across the couch.
The afternoon stretched endlessly. Susannah drifted in and out of fevered sleep, sometimes muttering incoherently, sometimes crying out in distress. During the worst moments, when her temperature spiked and she began shaking uncontrollably, Laurel had to grip the arm of the couch to keep from calling 911.
Conrad never left his post in the armchair across from the couch, watching his mother with the intensity of a sentry. When Jeremiah returned from the beach with Belly and Steven in tow, Conrad intercepted them at the door.
"Mom's sick," he said simply. "Food poisoning, probably. She's sleeping."
It was a lie, and they all knew it, but nobody called him on it. Jeremiah's face went white, and he started toward the living room, but Conrad caught his arm.
"She needs quiet," Conrad said firmly. "Laurel's taking care of her."
That evening, as the fever finally began to break, Susannah managed to keep down some of the chicken soup Laurel had made from scratch. She was still weak, still flushed and shaky, but her eyes were clearer than they'd been all day.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to Laurel, who was sitting beside her with a bowl of lukewarm broth.
"For what?"
"For scaring you. For... all of this." Susannah's hand gestured vaguely, encompassing not just the fever but everything else – the treatments, the uncertainty, the way cancer had invaded their perfect summer paradise.
Laurel set down the soup bowl and took Susannah's hand in both of hers. Her friend's fingers were still too warm, but steady now.
"You don't apologize for being sick, Beck. That's not how this works."
"I wanted this summer to be perfect," Susannah said, tears sliding down her cheeks. "For the kids, for all of us. I wanted to pretend that everything was normal."
"It is normal," Laurel said fiercely. "This is our normal now. And that's okay."
They sat in silence for a while, the sound of waves through the open windows mixing with Susannah's gradually steadying breathing. Conrad had finally dozed off in his chair, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, but Laurel didn't have the heart to wake him.
"He's been watching me all day," Susannah observed quietly, looking at her older son with a mixture of love and heartbreak.
"He's scared," Laurel admitted. "They all are. But they love you, Beck. So much."
"I know." Susannah's voice was thick with emotion. "I just... I hate that they have to be scared. I hate that this is what their summer has become."
"Their summer is whatever it needs to be," Laurel said firmly. "And right now, it needs to be about taking care of you. They can handle that. They're stronger than you think."
"When did you become the wise one?" Susannah asked with a weak smile.
"Someone has to be, since you're too busy being sick to do it yourself."
They shared a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it felt almost like before – like they were just two friends talking late into the night, their biggest worries centered around teenage heartbreak and college applications.
But then Susannah coughed, a harsh, rattling sound that served as a sharp reminder of reality, and the spell was broken.
"We should call Dr. Martinez in the morning," Laurel said. "Just to be safe."
Susannah nodded, too tired to argue. "Will you stay? I don't want Conrad to worry if I get worse."
"Of course." Laurel squeezed her hand. "I'm not going anywhere, Beck. I promise."
As the night wore on, Laurel kept vigil from the chair Conrad had vacated when she'd finally convinced him to go to bed. She watched the rise and fall of Susannah's chest, monitored the gradual return of normal color to her cheeks, and tried not to think about how many more nights like this might be ahead of them.
Outside, the ocean kept its eternal rhythm, indifferent to human suffering and love alike. But inside the summer house, surrounded by the quiet breathing of sleeping teenagers and the whispered reassurances between best friends, there was something that felt almost like peace.
When morning came, Susannah's fever had broken completely. She was weak but alert, able to sit up and drink tea without help. The crisis had passed, but its shadow lingered in the careful way Conrad watched her eat breakfast, in Jeremiah's uncharacteristic quiet, in the way Belly and Steven kept finding reasons to check on her throughout the day.
They didn't talk about it directly – that wasn't their way. Instead, they fell into new rhythms: Conrad helping with morning medications, Jeremiah bringing his mother tea without being asked, Belly reading aloud from her summer novels while Susannah rested.
And Laurel watched it all with a mixture of pride and heartbreak, knowing that this was how they would get through whatever came next – together, one day at a time, pretending to be normal while secretly holding their breath.
The fever had been a warning, a glimpse of the battles yet to come. But it had also been a reminder that they were stronger than they knew, that love could be its own kind of medicine, and that sometimes the most extraordinary thing about summer wasn't the sunshine or the freedom, but the simple act of taking care of each other when everything else fell apart.