“Chaya’s illness has nothing to do with you or the boys. It was sad and tragic, but nothing hereditary or genetic or contagious. Trust me”
“How do you know I can’t get it?” Rikki asked her father.
“Rikki, you’re 13 and healthy, baruch Hashem. Chaya was born like that. The likelihood of you contracting it is zero.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“But, last night, my legs were hurting. Is that one of the symptoms? You said Chaya’s legs don’t work.”
“Rikki, listen to me. Your legs are fine. You’re fine. Trust me.”
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