But Kitty hadn’t come to him for help—not then, not now. The ripples again. Maybe he could have helped them fifteen years ago. Or maybe they would have run away anyway. Maybe if Kitty had trusted him, if he hadn’t snapped when she got pregnant, she would have come to him instead of Lex a few days ago. Maybe then Suzze would still be alive. Maybe Brad would be too.

Lots of maybes.

“I have one more question,” he said. “Did you ever tell Brad the truth?”

“About you hitting on me? Yes. I told him it was a lie. He understood.”

Myron swallowed. His nerves felt raw, exposed. He heard the catch in his voice as he asked, “Did he forgive me?”

“Yes, Myron. He forgave you.”

“But he never got in touch.”

“You don’t understand our lives,” Kitty said, her eyes on the bag in his hand. “We were nomads. We were happy that way. It was his life’s work. It was what he loved, what he was meant to do. And now that we were back, I think he would have called you. But . . .”

She stopped, shook her head, closed her eyes.

It was time to go see his father now. He had the plastic bag of heroin. He looked at it, unsure what to do.

“You don’t believe me,” Kitty said. “About Brad forgiving you.”

Myron said nothing.

“Didn’t you find Mickey’s passport?” Kitty asked.

Myron was confused by the question. “I did. In the trailer.”

“Take a closer look at it,” she said.

“At the passport?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She kept her eyes closed and didn’t reply. Myron took one more look at the heroin. He had made her a promise that he didn’t want to keep. But now, as he held it back up, Kitty saved him from this one last moral dilemma.

She shook her head and told him to leave.

When Myron got back to Saint Barnabas Hospital, he slowly pushed open the door to Dad’s room.

It was dark, but he could see that Dad was sleeping. Mom sat next to his bed. She turned and saw Myron’s face. And she knew. She let out a small cry, smothering it with her hand. Myron nodded at her. She rose, headed into the corridor.

“Tell me,” she said.

And he did. Mom took the blow. She staggered, cried, put herself together. She hurried back into the room. Myron followed.

Dad’s eyes remained closed, his breathing raspy and uneven. Tubes seemed to snake out from everywhere. Mom sat back next to the bed. Her hand, shaking with Parkinson’s, took his.

“So,” Mom said to Myron in a low voice. “We agree?”

Myron did not reply.