Josh stared at the table. He may have responded to the people who talked to him. It didn’t really matter, though, did it?

Sometime later, Darius drove him home to the old mill building turned condos. “Want me to come in, buddy?” he asked in the parking lot.

“No, no. I . . . I think I want to be alone.”

“Got it. Listen, Josh, I’m here for you, okay? Anytime, night or day. We married sisters. We’re family forever. Brothers.”

Josh nodded. Darius was very tall and had rich brown skin, so Josh doubted anyone would mistake them for brothers, but it was a nice thought. “Thanks, Darius.”

“This really sucks, man.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry. She was . . . she was a peach.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll text you tomorrow. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

He went up the stairs, his legs heavy. For the past six days, he’d been staying at his mom’s house, glad for the familiar comfort of his childhood home, the smells and furniture. Lauren, whose own mother was a bit of a drama queen, had welcomed his mother’s calm ways, understood her devotion to her only child, admired Stephanie for raising him alone. Lauren was more than a daughter-in-law to his mom; she was the daughter Stephanie never had.

Had been. She had been.

Jesus. He had to change tenses now. He unlocked the apartment door and went inside. He hadn’t been here since Lauren was hospitalized . . . when was that? Six days ago? Eight? A lifetime.

The island lights shone gently, and the lamp by the reading chair was on low. Someone had been here. The place was immaculate. The pillows were plumped on the couch, pillows Lauren had bought. A bouquet of yellow tulips sat on the kitchen island, smack in the middle, obscenely cheerful. The blankets that Lauren had used, since she was always cold, were folded, one draped over the back of the couch.

It was so quiet.

Pebbles, their goofy Australian shepherd mutt, had been staying with Jen since Lauren’s hospitalization; Josh had forgotten to ask for her back. Well. Another day wouldn’t matter.

Josh went into the bedroom. Lauren’s medical stuff—her at-home oxygen, her percussion vest—was gone. Josh had agreed to that, he remembered vaguely. Donate the stuff to someone in need or something. The pill bottles that had sat on her night table, the Vicks VapoRub . . . those were gone, too.

Idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. Twelve syllables of doom. A disease for which there was no cure. A disease that usually hit older people but, occasionally, chose a young person to invade. A disease that had a life expectancy of three to five years.

Lauren had gotten the shorter end of that.