"Tuck," she called, not shouting, just loud and clear, at the lifeguard stand fifteen feet away. "Call 911. Tell them a six-year-old is having anaphylaxis. Nut allergy. Meadowlark Commons pool. Tell them we're giving epinephrine. Now, please."
Tuck didn't ask a single question. I'll love that kid forever for it. He came down off the stand, already pulling his phone out of the pouch on his hip, and I heard him say, "Yeah, hi, I need an ambulance," before he'd taken three steps.
Clem looked up at me again. "Dad, find out if he has his own pen. Find Mrs. Quisenberry. Ask her where it is. Go."
I went. I got about six steps toward the DJ tent before Verlene turned around and saw her grandson on the ground, and saw who was kneeling next to him, and came across the deck at me like I was standing between her and a burning house.
"What happened? What's she doing? Archie?"
"He's having an allergic reaction," I said. "He ate one of your lemon bars. Where's his EpiPen? His mom sent one. Where is it?"
"He's fine. He's not having a reaction. He's just—" She pushed past me. "Archie, honey, what's wrong, are you choking?"
"Verlene, where's his pen?"
She didn't answer me. She was looking at Clem, who had unzipped the sloth pouch and pulled out one of the carrying tubes and popped the cap with her thumb and slid the auto-injector out into her palm. I watched Verlene's eyes go to it, and I watched them stay there, and I saw something happen in her face that at the time I took for fury. I've thought about it a lot since. I don't think it was fury. I think, looking back, it was the first second of understanding, and I think she couldn't stand it, and I think she turned it into fury because fury was a room she knew how to live in.
"Don't you touch him," she said. "Don't you dare. Put that away."