It was his turn to get teary. “That means a lot to me. I’ll be here till the end of the month, so don’t you worry. I’m not abandoning this ship.”

“Will he get better, LeVon? I know you’re not supposed to guess, but what do you think?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Technically, you’re right. I can’t guess, and patients surprise us all the time. But I don’t think he’ll ever recover completely, no. Most of the patients I’ve seen with hemorrhagic stroke and traumatic brain injuries . . . at his age, no, I don’t think he’ll ever go back to being the guy you used to know.”

I nodded, my heart sinking even though I’d kinda known that already. “Well. Thank you.”

Sadie wasn’t coming today; she had to do something with that little pile of sticks she called a house, so I’d left work early. I had to e-mail Gillian about the town’s birthday (and apologize for that wretched dinner party) and call Juliet (who had been a bit tipsy, which wasn’t like her). I had a speech to write for the Small Town Coalition and a few e-mails to return. A phone call to Lucille Dworkin, who had been pestering Lindsey to see if we would arrest her neighbor for using his leaf blower before eight a.m. on a Saturday.

I looked in on John, who was asleep in his chair, and took the soft cashmere throw I’d splurged on last year, tucking it around him in case he was cold. Regulating his body temperature was one of his medical issues these days. His hair was sticking up on one side, and I smoothed it down. He didn’t stir. I hadn’t shaved him today, because it made him agitated, and he had a fuzz of white stubble on his face.

He looked so old.

A knock came on the door, and it was a relief to answer it.

Janet Hubb, who had crashed our dinner party and inspired John to say his first intelligible, post-stroke word, stood there, smiling.

“Hey, Barb,” she said. “On my way to see my brother, thought I’d pop by.”

“Hello, Janet. Come on in.”

I wasn’t sure why I liked Janet, but I did. She was the type of woman who didn’t care about postmenopausal facial hair—I had to force my eyes not to study her lip—and she only seemed to wear overalls and those awful gardening clogs. I liked her hair, her granny glasses, her bulky, hand-knit sweaters (although perhaps I’d knit her something with a little less hay in it, fewer dropped stitches).

“How you doing today, friend?” she asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “How’s our John?”

Our John. “He’s resting.”