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dose of the ikhar during therapy, but his mother was a total helicopter—no, make that a flying saucer, always hovering within a ten-foot radius so she could keep Tommy in her tractor beam and haul him up at any moment. She had hand cleanser ready at all times and never let him eat or drink anything at the therapy place—like everything was germy or something.
    That had left Chaim no choice but to take the proverbial bull by its proverbial horns.
    So far in his life he’d caused a ton of bad feelings and misery and harm—to himself and others. But he’d gotten clean, quitting the shit he used to squirt into his veins—H, meth, even tried Berzerk, but only once. Now that he had the means to make up for all his past failings, he was determined to take it seriously. Tommy needed—no, more than needed—Tommy deserved the ikhar, and by the All-Mother, he was going to get it.
    â€œTommy, dear,” Mrs. Cochran said, “why don’t you set up the chessboard on the kitchen table and we’ll play.”
    â€œChess at eight years old!” Chaim said, avoiding the grown-up gosh-wow enthusiasm that kids instinctively scoped out as phony. “What are you, like some kinda prodigy?”
    He grinned. “I’m getting there.”
    â€œHe’s a natural,” his mother said. “Beats me all the time.” She shooed him away. “Go ahead. Chet and I will be finished in a minute.”
    â€œAre you gonna be talking about me?”
    You got it, kid.
    â€œDamn straight,” he said. “We’re talking about changing your therapy and such like.”
    No way could Chaim make changes—he was just a helper, not an RPT—but Tommy wouldn’t know that.
    After a long pause with a nakedly suspicious expression, the kid turned his chair and wheeled away.
    â€œSee you tomorrow, Chet,” he said over his shoulder.
    â€œYou got it, buddy!”
    As soon as he was out of sight, Mrs. Cochran tried to press the vial back into Chaim’s hand. “I know you mean well, but I can’t take this.”
    But he wasn’t having any of it. “You’ve got to, Mrs. Cochran. It’s his only chance for a normal life. Just promise me one thing: If, like, he suddenly gets a whole lot better, don’t mention my name, okay? Just say it’s a miracle and leave it at that.”
    â€œMiracles come from God, Chet. This isn’t from God.”
    He’d spotted her crucifixes and rosaries when she brought Tommy to PT and knew she was Catholic. A praying Catholic. Didn’t see a whole lot of those these days.
    â€œTh … God works in mysterious ways, Mrs. Cochran.”
    Whoa! He’d almost said “the All-Mother.” That would have totally blown it.
    He backed out the storm door onto the porch, pleading as he moved. “Just one dose, Mrs. Cochran. Half an ounce. I’m begging you for Tommy’s sake. One dose is all it will take.”
    He closed the door and hurried away. His first glance back showed her staring at him through the glass, her hands clutched around the vial. When he looked back again the door was closed.
    She had to believe him. She had to.

 
    5
    A miracle … Tommy had stopped right around the corner from the front hall and listened. He’d heard Chet and Mom mention a miracle. Tommy craved a miracle.
    As soon as he’d heard the door slam, he’d wheeled his chair up behind his mother. The rubber wheels made no noise, so when she turned and saw him there she jumped and gasped—and almost dropped the little glass tube in her hand.
    â€œTommy! You startled me!”
    â€œWhat did Chet give you?”
    Her fingers tightened around the tube, hiding it. “Nothing.”
    â€œMo-om.” He drew out the word. “I heard him say ‘miracle.’ If he—”
    â€œOh, Tommy, dear,” she said, kneeling beside his chair and getting eye to eye with him. Usually