Andre jumped in alarm, and Sasha let out a distressed cry that quickly turned into sobbing.
“DAD!” my son shouted as he rushed to help me, though he had no idea what to do.
Slowly I bent forward onto my hands and knees, as if somehow that might stop the coughing spasms. The left side of my body went numb, and I twisted as gently as I could until the sharp stabbing pain subsided—but it was too late.
I had spit everything onto the filthy floor of the wagon, and my breathing sounded hollow. Every exhale came from my snout with a harsh growl that didn’t come from my throat. The stench of the dirty floor made me nauseous.
I imagined this must be what a dog with distemper felt like.
It was humiliating.
Andre helped me lie down, terrified, whining and whimpering.
“Dad! Dad, tell me what to
