“It’s the water!” she exclaimed.
“What do you mean, honey?” asked Carla.
“It has to do with the water,” she said again, more excited. She stepped over to me and took my hand. Not my bad hand, but my good hand. As she spoke, she looked into my eyes. “And if it could cure him, it can cure you, too. And Uncle Joe.”
“Baby, we don’t know if Mike is cured—”
“He’s cured, Daddy. I know it.”
I thought about that even as I wondered where the hell my brother was—I thought about that as the burning in my hand now crept over my wrist and up along my forearm.
A cure? Was it possible?