I see kids at the pool sucking on ringpops.

I smell the insulin.

I touch the tiny holes in his wet fingers.

I hear the ripping of tape on skin.

I see a spot of old blood on his underwear.

I smell the alcohol wipe.

I touch his hips in search of buttons.

I hear the air being drained from a juice box.

I see you hiding behind the couch, Charlie.

I smell a temper tantrum coming.

I touch his head when it's over.

I hear him beeping.

I see his sister hiding licorice in her hands. "Shhh! Don’t tell Charlie."

I smell trouble.

I hear this on my voicemail:

"Hey Carey. It’s 10:50 and I just want to tell you we just had a severely, um ... scary low. He was 36 right after he had a snack and he was like acting really funny and his eyes were kinda like … I don’t know, they were like … just … really weird and it was really scary. Um and … he’s OK now but now … I gave him like … like four juice boxes and it took a while for him to come up but he’ll probably end up being a little high now and I’ll just keep an eye on him but it was … I haven’t seen him behaving that way since that time in the food store so it was really … it was really kinda scary [nervous giggle] . And that’s it. OK. Bye."

I can taste a cure.

Not really.