The smell of defeat.

We're both in the living room on our respective laptops, soaked in Wi-Fi and fatigue.

"I stink," she says.

It's true. Our ailing daughter just threw up on her, and even after a change of clothes, the smell is on her skin. I don't say anything, and time passes.

"I stink," she says.

It's still true, and it will probably continue to be true. During the vomit clean-up effort, we discovered we no longer have hot water. Further investigation revealed a wet trail running from the water heater to the basement drain.

"I stink," she says.

It's well into the day after the day I woke into, and comprehension has halted. I suggest we go to bed.