She watches Edward’s expression shift—confusion to uncertainty, then a flash of recognition—and he glares at her with a look she has never seen before, something between disbelief and disappointment. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then don’t. Don’t even think it, let alone say it. It’s a dreadful thing even to consider.”

There is such incredulity in his voice that Audrey cannot bear to look at him. She feels herself falter but then remembers Zoe upstairs, her breaths shortening, her life ebbing away one inhalation at a time. “But she’s in pain, Edward. She’s suffering. How can you bear to see her like that and do nothing?”

“Because I don’t believe in playing God. Anything could happen—anything. The doctors don’t know everything. She could get better, you just don’t know. Miracles do happen. You hear about them all the time in the papers.”

It is a line Edward has repeated again and again over the past fourteen months and Audrey cannot tell if he actually believes it or whether it is simply a verbal comfort blanket. He has never been a particularly religious man but this belief in miracles—in the possibility of divine intervention against all the scientific and medical odds—has erected itself as an invisible wall between them.

No, Audrey wants to say, miracles don’t happen all the time. The reason you read about them in the papers is because of how rare they are. “But you heard what the doctor said, you heard what Grace said. There isn’t going to be an eleventh-hour reprieve. She’s not going to get better, Edward. She’s dying. Our little girl is going to die.”

Her voice splinters, the words she has not dared say aloud before burning in the back of her throat, and there is a moment of terror that voicing them has somehow sealed Zoe’s fate, like a spell in a fairy tale that cannot be undone.

“Stop it, Audrey, just stop it. You don’t know that. You don’t know what’s going to happen. You might have given up hope but I haven’t. I won’t give up hope until there’s nothing left to hope for. I can’t believe you’re even thinking like this, let alone talking about it. I will never give up on her, never. Now I’m going upstairs to be with Zoe. Don’t follow me—I want to be on my own with her.”

Edward’s cheeks are blotchy as he turns and leaves. Left alone in the kitchen, Audrey sheds tears for the miracle she feels certain will never arrive.

Audrey has not slept all night. She has not wanted to sleep, has not wanted to miss a second of however much time Zoe has left. Instead, she has sat by Zoe’s bed listening to her breathing, her ears attuned to every change, however small, like a bat vigilant to the sound of predators swooping through the darkness.

She knows that, in spite of Edward’s belief in miracles, Grace is right—they have already passed the beginning of the end. She does not know how long the end will be but she can sense its presence. Life is retreating from her daughter, leaving her gasping for air, her body restless and twitching, and there is nothing Audrey can do to make her better.