The bitterness was dry, coating the back of my tongue like aspirin.

“You really should have some, Daniel,” I said, putting my fork down.

“I told you, I am not hungry,” he said.

He tapped his thumb against his temple again, his eyes tracking every movement of my fork.

I swallowed another small bite, wishing to show Noah there was nothing to fear.

The refrigerator hummed, a low, steady vibration that seemed to grow louder in my ears.

Noah dropped his fork, the metal clattering loudly against the blue ceramic.

“Mom,” he whispered, his voice sounding thick and distant.

He tried to stand, but his knees buckled, and his shoulder hit the edge of the table as he slid to the linoleum floor.

“Noah,” I tried to scream, but my throat felt dry and heavy, as if it were lined with sand.

I tried to reach for him, but my arms would not move.

The kitchen began to tilt, the yellow walls spinning in a slow, greasy circle.