“Sam…” I say cautiously, “He wasn’t a young man. Death was definitely something that had crossed his mind. He was probably very aware of the fact that when it happened, we might not all be there with him, for whatever reason. But that’s a different kind of alone to the really bad kind of alone, and I’m pretty sure Dad knew the difference.” I hesitate, trying to find the word—not just for Sam, but for myself.

“You know,” I say, “how babies freak out when someone leaves the room? How they think that, the second they can’t see you, you don’t exist any more?”

Sam doesn’t respond.

“Well,” I say, “that changes as we get older, right? And I think,” I swallow. “I think the older you get, the more strongly people exist even when they’re not there. By the time you get to Dad’s age, Sam, you carry everyone with you. You carry everyone all of the time. So you were with him, Sam. I really think you were with him.”

Sam’s silent for a while, and then turns back to me.

“You’re hypocrites,” he says. “All of you. You’re all just hypocrites.” His voice wavers. “You’re always pretending. Always acting like everything’s okay, like life is just fine. But it’s not! People die—all the time! I mean, just look at the news. It’s full of terrible things happening, all of the time. And you all just pretend that they’re not!” He says the last sentence in a burst of rekindled anger and when he’s done he looks away again, as though even my face is too offensive for him to bear.

I sit back on the bench. Over by the entrance I see Oliver, talking on the phone. He looks at me and mouths, Abigail.

“You think we’re just ignoring it,” I say to Sam. “Is that it? You think we’re ignoring all the terrible things going on in the world?”

Sam scoffs.

“I don’t just think it. You are, you all are.”

There’s a breeze coming through the gate, and for a moment I close my eyes and feel it.

“No, Sam,” I say. “We’re not.”

I look at him; at the side of his face, which he refuses to turn my way.