Tonight, Fiona spiked a fever and had a very brief seizure. She was standing at the coffee table, coloring, and I watched her “lights go off” but her eyes remain open, and she tipped over like an axed tree. Her head was the first thing to hit the floor. She jittered a few seconds on the ground and then “came to,” as they say. I was holding Petra, whom I put down, and I shouted “Fiona!” as I always do when she’s seizing, like I can shout her out of it, which I can’t, and by the time I got to Fiona, she was sobbing. Wet-mouthed and inconsolable. These atonic seizures freak her out, make her cry. I held her on the couch and she cried and pushed me away, and I kissed her head and said it was okay and that she was okay, and she settled a little. And then I realized: at my knees the entire time was Petra, my one-year-old, standing with a furrowed brow, looking intently at her sister, and finally Petra asked what I ask her whenever she cries: “What’s wrong?” Oh Petra, dear. I suspect that’s not the first time you’ll ask that question. I only pray I have the right words when you can understand them.