It was such a Dad move, deciding to go for a bike ride on a nice day, winter be damned. Apparently he had a stroke and fell, then lay there for an unknown amount of time before someone saw him and called 911. They missed the golden hour, that window after a stroke when intervention can make a huge difference. “A pity, really,” Oliver said. The vast understatement of that word made me want to smack him.

My tears kept falling. My mother stared into space. Juliet checked in with the babysitter and sat next to Mom. They murmured to each other. Oliver smiled every time I looked at him. I kept checking my phone to see if Alexander had turned on his—Boston wasn’t that far, and I’d texted, too. But he was one of those people who would forget his phone was off until hours later.

A few friends from St. Catherine’s had texted; I guess Carter had put the word out. Even Sister Mary sent me a message, saying she’d pray for my family.

An hour ticked past. A couple of times, I had to get up and go to the window so I wouldn’t sob in front of my family, in case Mom said something like, “There’s no point in crying, Sadie. Save that for when he dies.” Not that she would. But I kept imagining that kind of thing—Juliet sighing and rolling her eyes at me, or my annoyingly chipper brother-in-law saying something British, like, “Stiff upper lip, Sadie! No need to get all collywobbles!”

Where was Alexander? Where was the doctor? (He probably had a good excuse, like saving someone’s life, but I was still irked.)

It started to snow, first just a few drifting flakes, then a near whiteout. The TV on the wall showed meteorologists peeing themselves with glee, standing at intersections where cars slid by to report that, yes, it was snowing. If one of those sliding cars hit them, it would be natural selection.

My father’s condition had rendered me vicious, it seemed.

Finally, as I stared out the window at the “polar vortex” (because calling it snow was so yesterday), Alexander’s name flashed on my phone. I told him the grim news.

“Babe, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “You know me and driving with the phone off. But I’ll keep it on, and I’m getting right back in the car.”

“Is it snowing there?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Yeah. Pretty hard.”

“Here too. Why don’t you call in the morning? Stay in Boston tonight. The forecast is eight to twelve inches.”

“That’s what she said.”

My jaw clenched. “Not now, Alexander.”

“Sorry. Just trying to make you laugh.”

“I know.” I paused. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I’m so sorry about this, babe. I know how much you love your dad.”