“No, Mommy. You sit down, okay? I’ll be back in a few. I’ll bring you a coffee and a snack. There’s a Starbucks here. I’ll be right back. Text me if there’s any news.” She smiled suddenly. “I can hear your Minnesota.”

“Oh, can you, now?” I asked, exaggerating the accent as a joke, and we managed a little laugh. It was true; stress brought out the accent.

Off she went, and as ever, I was so grateful that she was mine, and here.

The family waiting room on this floor looked like an airport lounge, sleek and cheerful. I found a chair and sat down, still in my winter coat. The chair was meant to look like a Morris chair, sturdy and reassuring. A good choice for this place.

When we first moved to Stoningham, I’d loved tag and estate sales and combed half the state looking for antiques that needed a little sanding, some repairs. John still worked in family law then, and we had to be smart about money, what with all the house costs we had—new kitchen, bathrooms, a leak in the roof, a new boiler. But we also had to furnish the place.

One day, I’d come across a beautiful wooden chair with leather cushions and clean lines. It cost ten dollars. I brought it home, cleaned and oiled the leather, polished the wood, and presented it to John when he came home that night. He’d been so pleased. So pleased. It was a vintage Morris chair, we learned, and John sat in it every night until he moved it to his study.

It was the best gift I’d ever given him.

I wondered when he moved it from the living room into the study.

The bag I’d forgotten I was holding gave a strange buzz. Right. John’s things were in there, those slippery, strange clothes that were thin as paper but somehow kept you warm. Honest to Pete. He was too old to be an athlete. I’d tell him that if he lived. He could take up fly-fishing or something. My fingers closed on his phone and pulled it out.

It was his work. John still did some consulting here and there. Shoot. I should tell them, shouldn’t I? He loved some of those folks. I typed in his code (0110, our anniversary), but it didn’t work. He must’ve changed it after being hacked or something, not that he said anything to me. I typed in his birthday. That didn’t work, either. Sadie’s birthday. There.

His screen was lit up with texts. I put on my reading glasses.

After a second, I took off my reading glasses and put the phone down. Held down the little button so it would turn off. My face felt hot, my hands like ice. My heart felt sick and slow, flopping like a dying bird.