Owen's taken a turn. The spirited boy I'm used to is not here today.
He is sick. sick. sick. The sickest he's ever been. And it breaks my heart. And there's not anything I can do for him. But I try. I give him his bear. I let him watch TV. I give him a bath. I make him soup and toast.
Just now I peeked around the corner at him. He's fallen asleep in the chair, having refused to lay in the bed. He makes small whimper-y noises.