She is relieved but doesn’t show it and makes me promise to call her if I need anything, and I promise even though I won’t call, which she knows. So she goes too, and now no one else is here but the hired help rinsing cake plates in the kitchen.

Hank Skillman shouldn’t have harassed that poor doctor. People like to point fingers so they can place blame, because it’s easier to hate someone than to contemplate mortality, but Dr. Hart has been through enough. He had to deal with the aftermath of life leaving a body. That’s a terrible burden. I should know.

Hank shouldn’t have planted all these questions in my head, either. About the phone calls, the pact. Now I’ll always wonder. That’s a terrible burden, too. But then tonight, before he left, the way he pulled me aside to tell me what Dr. Hart told him? That the accident had been foreseeable? I preferred not knowing that. “I got him to admit it,” Hank said, like he’d run some sting operation. Now I have to decide what to do with the information, which is a burden, too.

Up until now, every time Hank said, “You should sue,” I could say, “Ah, but Palsgraf versus the Long Island Railroad,” and he’d concede that the law was on Dr. Hart’s side. A person cannot be held responsible for an unforeseeable accident that occurs on his property. I figured that out right away. If the accident was foreseeable, though—reasonably foreseeable—well, I guess that would change things. Everything. And like Hank keeps reminding me, the whole point of homeowner’s insurance is to cover accidents, and I owe the Harts nothing, and I’m all alone now and need to take care of myself. He’s not wrong.

I pay the lady in my kitchen and tell her to take all the cookies she wants. She slips the check into her apron pocket and begins filling a gallon ziplock with dessert. I say, “I’m going to bed now. Just lock the door behind you.”

She doesn’t mention the Universe’s plan or the healing power of Time. She doesn’t spit words like soap bubbles out of her mouth. She just says, “Good night, Naomi,” and now I’m sure I undertipped her, and I feel terrible, but not bad enough to write another check.

On my way up the stairs, I pass a lineup of photographs on the wall. Becca and Marco and Nick, my parents, some aunts and uncles who’ve also died or fallen out of favor. Everyone gone. This is how it happens, I guess. People just live until they don’t, and at some point someone’s left to tell the story, but no one cares unless you’re famous, and we’re not famous. So then, we’re gone.