“We had pasta,” I said, my voice dry and thick from the charcoal. “Daniel made the sauce from the tomatoes in our backyard garden.”

“This was not spoiled tomatoes,” Dr. Vance said, tapping his thumb against his clipboard. “The lab found twelve milligrams of zolpidem in your system, and slightly more than that in your son’s.”

“Noah,” I said, trying to sit up against the stiffness in my lower back. “Where is Noah?”

“He is down the hall in pediatric recovery,” the doctor said. “He is awake, but his blood pressure is still quite low.”

I looked at the black digital clock on the wall, which read ten minutes past three in the morning. I wondered why Daniel was not standing in the doorway with his truck keys in his hand, asking if he could sign the insurance forms.

“My husband must be at home cleaning up the kitchen,” I said, though my own words felt heavy and slow.