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I make a face. “Growing up with a chronically ill younger sibling can do that.”

“Oh, don’t blame the CF. The problem is growing up with a younger sibling who’d be running into that water, ignoring the pollution and undertow warnings, swimming past the buoys before anyone notices.”

“And Keith was always there, pulling me back and giving me shit. Such a spoilsport.”

“Which is why he’s not here this week. We can love the guy while still not wanting him around sometimes.”

He lifts his glass, and I lean over to clink mine against it.

Jin and I both fall asleep downstairs. I drift off first and wake first. He’s sleeping so sweetly in the recliner that I can’t help but smile… right before I arrange the dolls in a ritualistic circle around him and then I head to the kitchen.

It’s almost eight, but the only person up is Dr. Cirillo, already working in the breakfast nook. I slip past unnoticed and brew a coffee. Then I do my nebulizer therapy, sitting and taking in medication through an inhaler while I read emails and type responses one-handed.

After that, I put on my vest. Having CF means daily airway clearance. That does not, thankfully, involve tubes down my throat or anything so invasive. When I was young, it did mean sitting in a chair for forty-five minutes a day, which might be how I came to love both reading and coding. People who know me marvel that I have a desk job. But books and code fully engage me, and if I’m fully engaged, I can indeed sit for hours.

Those old airway-clearance systems had to be plugged in, which kept me in one spot. I say “old” but they’re still in use for childrenand those who can’t afford my current vest, which cost more than my first car—and my second.

When Anton saw my vest, he said I looked ready to play laser tag. From the front it’s like a black life jacket with a small plastic box and attached wires. The back is one big box—like a mini backpack—that holds the rechargeable battery and some of the mechanical parts that send high-frequency oscillations through my chest wall, thinning the secretions in my lungs and helping them keep moving along.

The vest weighs about twelve pounds, meaning I definitely know it’s there. It’s advertised as being suitable for walking and even jogging, but even I don’t have the personal comfort level to wear it in public. At least not in Toronto. Here, though? I’m looking forward to combining two of my daily activities. A brisk five-kilometer walk before breakfast should give me my exercise and vest time.

I suit up, start my vest app, and pour my coffee into my travel mug. Then I swing open the back door and—

And jump back as a swarm of bugs rush at me.

Right. I forgot about the bugs.

I check my watch. It’s still too early to text the owner. The bugs seem to be mostly out back, near the lake. Going out front should be fine.

I head through the house, step onto the front porch, and…

Okay, this isn’t so bad. Fewer bugs, and they’re only in the shade. When I walk into the morning sun, only a few float past.

I can do this. It’s just bugs. Nonbiting flying insects. A mere annoyance that will not impede my enjoyment of this gorgeous spring morning.

I set out. I can feel the vest vibrating, but I’m used to it. As secretions move from my small airways to the large ones, I have to cough it out. I’ve preprogrammed the vest with cough pauses for that.

I walk briskly as I usually do to get my heart rate into the zone, but today I feel as if I’m marching to show the bugs that I’m not afraid of them.

The low drone of the vest does not, sadly, drown out the buzzing. It’s kind of surreal. I’ve seen insect swarms before, but this is next level. The swarm has moved farther over the cliff and hovers there, where it swirls like a funnel cloud.

Are those more swarms over the lake?

My fingers itch to take out my phone and do some research, but I am walking in the beautiful May sunlight, on a peaceful morning by the lake, and I am damn well not going to be that city person with her gaze glued to her phone.

I’m training my gaze on the non-bug-infested portion of the scenery when I spot a distant figure. My hands fall self-consciously to my vest, but I stop myself.

As the figure draws closer, I realize it’s Mrs. Kilmer. She’s carrying a box, and the only place she could be heading is Eventide Manor.

I have the urge to veer off onto a path on my right. That urge brings a wave of guilt, as if I want to avoid Mrs. Kilmer herself, when I really just don’t want to stop and chat to anyone. But when a bug bumps into me, I’m reminded that I have something to ask her about.

“Hello!” I call.

She smiles as she walks up, her gaze firmly on my face and avoiding my vest.

“Ignore this.” I tap the vest. “I’m just heading out cliff-diving.”

Her eyes widen in such horror that I feel terrible for the joke. “Kidding. It’s a medical device. I have cystic fibrosis.”