Emily was packing up at the end of the day, opening and closing her hand to see if she could stop it from aching, when her cell phone vibrated. It was Ezra: Not sure when I’ll be able to leave. You okay hanging out with me for a little? I told Malcolm’s dad I’d stay until he got back.

Emily replied: Of course. Her fingers really ached, which meant it would rain soon. Even though there wasn’t scientific backing for it, Emily knew it was true. The fingers on her right hand always ached before it rained, ever since her accident in college. And every time they did, she blocked thoughts of the beautiful music she used to play, the way it moved her soul. She’d chosen a different path.

Thank you, Ezra wrote back. I love you so.

Malcolm had been three the first time he was under Ezra’s care—he and his family came from Philadelphia to be treated in New York because his parents had heard that Dr. Gold was the best they could do for their child; he had the most up-to-date research, used the newest methods. Malcolm had been in remission for three and a half years, and now he was seven and not doing well. His mother had gone to Philadelphia to be with his brothers and sister for a few days and was coming back tonight.

Through her position at NYU, Emily had worked with Malcolm’s family a few times when he was in treatment years ago—she spoke to his siblings about how they felt about Malcolm’s illness. Those kinds of discussions overwhelmed her, though, and she hardly ever saw patients at the hospital now. But it was nice to still be able to walk the hospital halls to find her husband with whatever patient he happened to be spending time with at that moment.

Instead of taking a yellow cab, Emily walked the thirty minutes to the hem-onc wing of the children’s hospital, through Stuyvesant Square Park, past Peter Cooper Village, and up through NoMad, where the buildings seemed to be growing taller each day, rivaling the skyscrapers she could see peeking up from Midtown and Murray Hill. When she arrived, she found her husband sitting by Malcolm’s bedside, holding the little boy’s hand. Ezra’s lips were moving, but it was only when Emily got closer that she could hear what he was saying—what he was singing, actually, his voice a pure tenor. It was one of his favorite Beatles songs, about blackbirds and broken wings flying once more.