Pebbles was the only reason he left the apartment. Sometimes, he was too tired to face the outside world, so he took her up to the roof and let her shit up there. He wasn’t too proud of that, watching his dog crap where he and Lauren had had so many nice evenings—her sitting near the edge, him solidly in the center, since he didn’t like heights—but he couldn’t guilt himself into doing more. The seagull who had watched him burn his funeral clothes seemed to hang out there, judging him. Too bad. It was winter and cold as hell. Or maybe it was spring. He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Her “living urn” came—the soil, the supplements, the seedling. He couldn’t remember ordering them, but he must have. She’d bookmarked the page on his laptop. Joshua stood there at the counter, looking at the kit, his wife’s ashes, and got to work.

Lauren had loved plants. She’d grown herbs and flowers in pots on the rooftop and had bought hanging baskets for their rented house on the Cape. Their apartment was filled with plants, which reminded him they probably needed watering. He glanced around. Nope. Too late. They all looked dead.

As he followed the instructions, mixing his wife with the additive and soil provided by the living urn company, he was almost cheerful. He could picture her coming in. “What are you doing, hon?”

“I’m planting your tree.”

“Oh! Cool! Make sure those roots aren’t too squished.”

“You got it, babe,” he said aloud. Pebbles lifted her head to look at him.

This plant would not die. If it did, he’d kill himself. In a sudden panic, he booted up his laptop and ordered a gauge that monitored the soil’s moisture, pH, sun exposure, nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium. He read about what kind of exposure dogwood trees favored. The best room in their apartment would be their bedroom.

He’d have to go in there, then.

He did, spending not a second more than he had to, then fell asleep on the couch, hoping to dream of her.

Since her death, he’d dreamed of her often. In one, he came home, and she was tidying up the kitchen. “I came back just for a little while,” she said. “God, what a mess!” Or she was in her mother’s house, and he came in just as she was about to go into the attic. “Lauren!” he said, and she ran into his arms and hugged him, laughing.

The worst dream was almost an exact replica of her final hours in the hospital, a memory that Josh, when awake, had forbidden himself to think about. In the dream, though, she sat up at the end and said, “I feel better! How are you?”