Four-year-old Ryder shuffled forward on unsteady legs, his favorite yellow dinosaur clutched to his chest. The afternoon sun spilled through the kitchen window, painting everything gold.

She opened her arms wide, and he giggled, because he loved this game. The hug game. Her hugs were the best thing in the whole world, better than cartoons, better than birthday cake.

But he was four. He didn't understand why her skin was turning gray. Why her grip on him was loosening, why she was sliding down, down, down to the kitchen tiles.