You're not coughing. Not really. Just a small, discreet scratching sound that comes back when you breathe too hard. And then there's this itch on your arm, subtle, almost nothing—a timid redness, like a squiggle of misplaced heat.

You don't pay much attention to it. Maybe it's the sweater. Or the rough cushion in the reading nook. Or the rug that's a little scratchy, especially when you lie down on it for a long time. Nothing bad. But when you scratch, it spreads. Not much. Just enough for you to notice.

Your mother, Miranda, notices it too. She notices everything, even what you haven't said yet. She frowns slightly, raises an eyebrow too. She kneels down at your level, examines your arm without panicking, brushing the redness with her fingertip as if investigating a clue.

"You didn't have that little whistling sound this morning," she says, more to herself than to you.

Maybe it's a cold. Maybe it's this rug. Maybe it's nothing at all. Or maybe it's the beginning of something your mother will write down in an Excel spreadsheet, cross-reference with the weather, the humidity, and how often she washes your stuffed animals.