And I understand, I do. When a truth springs out of nowhere—especially an earthquake of a truth like this one—you want to respond to it. You want to do something. You want to throw out all the old stuff like a set of clothes that no longer fits, and remake the world according to your new reality.

So we packed our overnight cases, and downstairs Oliver purchased three one-way fares to Miami.

Now, out on the highway, snow is piled high against the side of the road, icy and blackening from traffic, a depressing charcoal color on the side that faces the highway. Oliver glances in the rearview mirror, overtakes the driver ahead.

“So this is just for one night?”

I look over at him.

“Probably. Or we might stay a second night. I’ll call you.”

I picture Dennis, presumably asleep right now in the middle of his night-time, and wonder if he’ll react badly to this. I think it’s for the best, though. Sam will be with his mom, and Mom and I will be there to make sure nothing goes wrong.

Oliver glances at me.

“Okay, just let me know when you know.”

I don’t ask him what he’ll do during the twenty-four or forty-eight hours that I’m gone. Work, I assume he’d say. And I hope that’s the full truth.

A hawk cuts through the sky overhead, and Oliver signals for the airport exit. In the back seat Mom and Sam are silent. My nephew has his headphones on. He hasn’t spoken much to Mom since this morning, avoiding her as much as possible. I don’t think it’s on purpose to punish her; I think he just doesn’t really know how to handle it.

I do another mental review of our hand-luggage in the back seat as we crest a hill and the airport comes into view. A plane cuts in low, the noise thunderous over our heads, and I take a breath and hope this isn’t the worst plan ever.

*

We sit three in a row on the plane: mom in the aisle seat, me in the middle, and Sam next to the window. He’s edgy, shifting the window blind up and down until the flight attendant asks him to stop.

“So we’ll be back in Westchester by the time Dad gets home?” he says.

I clear my throat, tamping down the little nervous feeling at the mention of Dennis.

“That’s the plan,” I say to Sam. “It depends a little bit on his flight schedule. But it should work out that way.” Even at its best, the flight from Myanmar takes almost thirty hours to JFK, with two or three different stopovers.

“Drinks?” Another flight attendant is passing with the beverage cart, rolling it to a halt beside us.