Will hasn’t stopped coughing since he went to bed. So far, it isn’t that blood-chilling croupy cough. At the same time, it’s so tight that I can’t breathe from all the way down here. Having Lucy call down every few minutes to tell me he was coughing didn’t help. It took everything I had not to snap, ‘Yes, I know he’s coughing. I can hear him. I already have awful visions in my head, thank you very much.’ I can hear the fear in her voice, though; I know that she’s on the edge of panic as well, and is just trying to help.

Is staying down here and pretending it’s nothing worse? There’s nothing I can do upstairs other than sit on the end of his bed and keep myself from hyperventilating as I take every breath with him. And let my mind wander, of course — when he said he was going to have a bad dream tonight, was he having a premonition of sorts? Did he know something would go wrong? Did he have some sense that something terrible would happen?

So here on the couch I sit, completely on edge, partly watching the TV and typing away as I try and distract myself. Knock on wood, fingers crossed, pray, pray, pray that everything will be alright.