Thursday, September 29, 2:00 PM. Amy.

It was cool again this morning, 53°. Trevor has been keeping a log of temperatures for the last few weeks. I suppose he’s our weatherman now.

Claire is doing a lot better. Her breathing is pretty much normal and she’s sitting up and interacting almost like her old self. Her heart rate is still a little high at 120 bpm, unless that’s normal for her—I never knew before. I’m still giving her 500 mg of amoxicillin twice a day and will keep doing that until Saturday. I’ve got this book on medication that I got from the library. It’s been a lifesaver. Literally.

Brewer is still spending most of the time resting. The boys and I have been tending the animals, including looking after Wizard’s leg wound. It seems to be healing, and he does seem to be gentler now that we’re handling him every day. I think he likes the attention. Brewer went out to the barn with us this morning, intending to help, but he got dizzy and his headache flared up again and he had to go in. But his pain and nausea is diminishing.

I almost wish I was sick. I am fried, exhausted inside and out from all the anxiety and sleepless nights this week. (As if the word “week” had meaning anymore.) The stupid thing is that now that Claire and Brewer are on the mend, I find myself thinking of Louis Armstrong. It makes me sad. It’s pretty clear he’s gone for good. I loved that cat. He was like thirteen years old; we’d had him forever. Claire keeps praying every night that he’ll come back the next day. I don’t know what to say to her. I guess she’ll learn the hard way. I guess we all do.