“Do you get to Yellowstone at all?”

“Oh, yeah, I love Yellowstone. Hayden Valley is my favorite part.”

Josh and Lauren had planned on going there. My God. They never would. They never would.

“My wife and I hope to get there,” he said around the tightness in his throat. “Maybe this summer.”

“Wait for September if you can. Fewer tourists.”

“Cool,” Josh said. “There are bison, right?”

“Absolutely. Big as a truck.” Josh could imagine it. Lauren would shriek if they came too close. Nah. She’d be brave. He wondered if they could see a wolf. She loved wolves.

The companionable silence stretched on.

“How are we doing with the download? Almost there?” Rory asked.

“Um . . . yes! Seems like everything’s back to normal.” Shit. Guess he’d have to hang up now, since he’d been on the phone for an hour and thirteen minutes. “Thanks so much, Rory.”

“You bet. You’ll get an email survey about how we did, and if you have any other issues . . .”

“No. I’m fine. Uh . . . thank you.”

Thank you for being a voice in the middle of the night. Thanks for letting me be someone else for a little while. Thanks for working the night shift. Thanks for never knowing how much I lost.

The survey came. He gave Rory top marks for everything.

11

Joshua

Month three

May 1

THE WHOLE WORLD stops when a young person dies. At least, the world you live in.

At first, everyone you know rallies around you, stunned and grieving, milling around. The solidarity of loss binds people together. No one can imagine moving forward. No one wants to. Stop all the clocks, as the poem instructs.

And time does seem to stop. No one in your world can ever see being happy again. It’s an impossibility. Nothing will be the same. Nothing ever should be the same. The world is ruined by her death.

There are the tasks immediately following. The phone calls. The arrangements. The assignments—you’ll go to the funeral home while her sister goes to the church, and this other one will order the flowers. There is so much to do, thank God, because your brain cannot accept what’s happened, and if you stood still for a second, you might spontaneously explode, like a wineglass shatters with a high note. Your feet are still moving and someone is pushing food and water on you, and another person is coming in now, and your phone is buzzing with texts and calls, and there’s another knock on the door.

You put together the photo collages, the PowerPoint that will show during the wake and reception. You’ll make the playlist she requested, pick out readings, order food. For a week or two, the world is filled with the details of death. Family huddles close. Her friends are devastated. Her coworkers can barely function. Her doctor calls to check on you. Her nurses come to the funeral.