“I don’t know how you did it all. I’m exhausted by ten o’clock every morning.”

Kate laughed. “Sit.”

“If I roll over and play dead do I get a biscuit?”

Kate handed her her journal. “You get this. First.”

Tully drew in a sharp breath. For all of the summer, she’d seen Kate writing on these pages, at first quickly and easily, and gradually more slowly. In the last few weeks, everything had been slow going for her.

She sat down slowly—slumped, actually—unable to say anything past the lump in her throat. She knew it would make her cry, but it would make her soar, too. Reaching out, she held Kate’s hand and then opened the journal to the first page.

A sentence jumped out at her.

The first time I saw Tully Hart, I thought: Wow! Look at those boobs.

Tully laughed and kept reading. Page after page.

We’re sneaking out?

Of course. Get your bike. And: I’ll just shave your eyebrows to give them shape . . . oops . . . that’s not good . . .

Your hair is coming out . . . maybe I should read the directions again . . .

Laughing, Tully turned to her. These words, these memories had, for a glorious moment, made everything normal. “How could you be friends with me?”

Kate smiled back. “How could I not?”

Tully felt like an imposter as she slipped into Kate and Johnny’s bed. She knew it made sense, her being in this room, but on this night it felt more wrong than usual. Reading the journal had reminded Tully of everything she had with Kate; everything they were losing.

Finally, sometime after three, she fell into a fitful sleep. She dreamed of Firefly Lane, of two girls riding their bikes down Summer Hill at night. The wind smelled of freshly cut hay and the stars were bright.

Look, Katie, no hands.

But Kate wasn’t there. Her empty bike clattered down the road, the white plastic streamers fluttering from the ends of the molded plastic grips.

Tully sat up, breathing hard.

Shaking, she got out of bed and put her robe on. Out in the hallway she passed dozens of mementos, photos of this life they’d shared for decades, and two closed bedroom doors. Behind them, the kids were asleep, probably suffering through similar dreams.

Downstairs, she made a cup of tea and went to the deck, where the cool dark air allowed her to breathe again.

“Bad dreams?”

Johnny’s voice startled her. He was in one of the Adirondack chairs, looking up at her. In his eyes she saw the same sadness that filled every pore of her skin and cell of her body.

“Hey,” she said, sitting in the chair beside his.

A cool breeze came off the Sound, whistling eerily above the familiar whooshing of the waves.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said quietly.