Margo’s voice remains low. “After his dad died, we were all she had. We were the first ones she called when she felt chest pains. It was the middle of the night. We arrived at the same time as the ambulance, so we saw what they did.”

I’m not sure whether Anne accepts Margo’s authority, or whether she is simply worn down by fear, but she grows silent. And so, we huddle there at the door, craning around for whatever glimpses we can get of Dad when the men switch places. They are in constant touch with the hospital, low voices alternating with a radioed one. None are hopeful.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty. After forty minutes with no response, they sit back on their heels, arms limp, radio silent. The eyes that meet ours hold regret.

“There has to be something else,” Anne protests, “maybe this is just a blip, maybe he’s just zoning out because he isn’t always completely clear with his thoughts, but he is totally healthy…” She is still talking when, apparently notified by the cops, Bill appears at the door and draws her out.

Margo and I squeeze farther inside. “Is there any chance?” I don’t hold Anne’s false hope, but I have to ask.

The paramedic who was in touch with the hospital says a quiet, “He was gone when we got here. This long without a heartbeat…” He doesn’t have to finish. Six minutes is the limit I’ve read, and Dad has gone nearly sixty.

There is a moment of silence then—and another, and another. Even the surf seems to have stilled, though whether in helplessness, disbelief, or tribute to Tom Aldiss I don’t know.

But reality won’t allow for more. Reality demands … something.

“What now?” I ask, bewildered. No one has moved.

“Autopsy?” Margo leans close to whisper to me. “Do we want to know conclusively whether he did or did not have Alzheimer’s?”

“No,” says Anne from behind us. Calmed by Bill, she sounds rational. “He didn’t want to know.”

“Organ donor?” I ask.

“No clue.” This, too, from Anne. Pushing between us, she drops to the floor, uncaring that she’s in the way of the men who will be gathering their equipment but determined to see through her role as Dad’s caretaker.

Relieved that she’s there, I leave the shed and call Jack, who picks up after a single ring. “He’s gone,” I say.

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

I haven’t cried up to this point, but his voice brings tears to my eyes. I’m thinking of loss, so much loss, and disappointment, so much disappointment—and of want and need and desire, so much of those, too.

“I’ll bring Joy,” he says.

“Please.”

“What should I tell her?”