As she rose to leave, she noticed a man nursing a cup of coffee a few tables away. A beautiful patrician face, close-cut dark hair, blue-blue eyes. And the saddest expression she’d ever seen. What was his story? Jenna wondered. Was a loved one upstairs fighting for life? Was there still hope? Or had the battle been lost? Those blue eyes were so expressive—so like Philippe’s.

The following day, she stopped by the hospital during the lunch hour and hurried back as soon as she had finished with her last patient. Mrs. Porter’s husband had arrived, and the couple sat mournfully in a corner. Karim was there to provide support and companionship for Josh, whose eyes were red- rimmed and puffy.

Nothing had changed for Carolyn except that the prognosis was now more certain: irreversible coma.

For hours, Jenna kept watch beside the empty shell that had once been her friend. The boys left the hospital at dinnertime, and the Porters retired to the waiting room. Jenna stayed at Carolyn’s bedside, as if through sheer presence and devotion she could remedy the past, restore the future. She massaged Carolyn’s hands, even talked to her, giving little bits of news and encouragement. Maybe, just maybe it would help.

Once again, she ended her vigil with a trip to the hospital cafeteria—and once more, the sad-looking man was there. Khaki pants and a crew neck sweater over a white oxford shirt—like an aging college boy, Jenna thought, finding the image sweet and somehow vulnerable. Impulsively, she put her cup of tea on the table next to his. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but you look as sad as I feel. It might help to talk about it.”

The man tried to smile but failed. “My wife’s upstairs,” he said in a soft, slightly hoarse baritone. “She has cancer.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jenna murmured. “But this is a good hospital, one of the best. I hope …”

The man shook his head. “No,” he said heavily, “I’m afraid not. It’s just a matter of waiting. And saying good-bye.”

Jenna couldn’t bring herself to utter more platitudes. After a few sips of her tea, she left with a murmured, “Good night.”

The following night, as if by agreement, they had their coffee and tea together. She told him about Carolyn. He shook his head in sadness and anger when she described the beating.

“And your wife?” she asked. “Any news?”

“Nothing good. But it won’t be long now.” For a few moments, he seemed to drift away. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I seem to have forgotten my man- ners. My name is Brad Pierce.”

“Jenna Sorrel. Do you work nearby?”

“I own a pharmaceutical company, out on route 128.” Though he did not elaborate, Jenna made the connection at once: Pierce Pharmaceuticals was one of the largest in the world.