It began like any spring afternoon—sunlight spilling through new leaves, the air humming with life. A man stepped outside, breathing in the promise of the season. He never noticed the tiny traveler that hitched a ride on his sleeve. Small as a sesame seed. Silent as a shadow.
Days later, he felt it: a whisper of fever, a weariness deeper than tired bones. Nothing alarming. Nothing that wouldn’t pass. But that whisper grew into a shout—headaches that stole his thoughts, nausea that refused comfort, a mind clouded as if behind frosted glass. Within weeks, a diagnosis no one expected: Powassan virus, carried by a tick so small, it vanished in the grass.
Kevin Boyce left this world on a quiet morning in May 2024. His family’s grief is still raw, like an open window on a cold night. Yet in their sorrow, they choose to speak—not to frighten, but to warn. Not to dwell in darkness, but to light a path for others.
a father mowing the lawn on a Saturday morning—