This morning I quietly told lil'Nathan that his fish had died during the night. He was quiet and tried hard to be brave and philosophical about it. Then he curled his legs up to his chin and fought the tears. I gave him a hug and asked how he wanted to bury him--outside the hotel (though I wasn't sure how we were going to dig a grave for him using a plastic spoon in the frozen ground) or flush him. I told him we'd have to get some fresh water in the tank before it infected the other fish. He got up to check on Goldy and yelled back, "Mom, Blate is swimming!" No, he's not, I corrected. I know he died last night. "Mom, he's swimming." Sure enough, the dopey fish was swimming. Totally not dead.
He's still alive, eating a little, swimming a little. Struggling to get up to the surface for air, seeming totally exhausted each time by the effort, and moving very little otherwise. I was so sure he was dead last night. He must be part cat--he's working on his 4th or 5th life at this point.