My son left his eight-year-old adopted daughter burning with a 104-degree fever so he could take his biological son on a luxury cruise. They thought no one would know. Until my phone rang at 2:00 a.m.

On the floor beneath the stool lay a digital thermometer. I picked it up and pressed the recall button. The tiny screen flashed a neon red number: 103.5°F.

They had taken her temperature. They had seen that she was dangerously ill. And then, they had packed their Louis Vuitton luggage, locked the door, and driven to the airport.

“Maya!” I roared, dropping the thermometer and sprinting up the carpeted stairs.

I threw open the door to her bedroom. The heat in this small, upper-floor room was suffocating. Maya was curled into a tight, trembling ball on top of a thin comforter. Her skin was a terrifying, translucent shade of crimson, her curls plastered to her forehead with dried sweat.

“Maya, it’s Grandpa. Look at me,” I pleaded, falling to my knees beside her bed.

I touched her cheek, and my hand recoiled instinctively. She was radiating heat like a furnace. Her eyes fluttered open, but they were milky and unfocused, rolling back slightly. She was trapped deep in the labyrinth of a fever dream.

“I won’t cough,” she mumbled, her small hands clutching the edge of my flannel shirt. “I’m sorry I ruined the trip. I’ll stay in the dark. I promise.”