Once the kids were inside, he watched the lights go on inside the house. He remained sitting in his car, not sure where to go next. He had no desire to go home, lacking the strength for an argument or, worse, enduring Molly’s mighty cold shoulder. He was behaving badly. He knew it, deep down, but he felt helpless. Grace was tearing herself to pieces just in case, but mutilation and keeping a caravan in your driveway is not the same thing. He knew Grace had noticed how distant he’d become. When she walked into a room, her daddy walked out of it. When she smiled at him, he cast his eyes to the floor. I don’t feel like talking or smiling. He was being stubborn and it was his worst trait. He knew it. He couldn’t help it.

How did it all fall apart? He and his wife didn’t really talk anymore. There was a Rabbit-shaped hole in their lives which seemed to grow with each passing day. Grace was self-inflicting torture. He’d been there for Rabbit, and it didn’t matter that the scalpel was wielded by a man with a kindly face or that the care had been second to none; the pain and the drains, the infections, rashes, blown veins, bruising, swelling, constipation and bladder problems that were just surgery-related and nothing to do with the chemo and radiation to follow, were a form of torture. Rabbit had no choice – it was hell or death – but Grace . . . How could she expect him to go through it all again? The first time around nearly killed him.