The rest of what Claret said flowed with a similar directness. “The way you see it, your distraction—your focus on your own thoughts—put your son at the mercy of the moment, at the mercy of fate. That, you believe, was your offense. And every once in a while, a situation arises in which you see an opportunity to place yourself in the same peril in which you placed him. You feel that it’s only fair that you should do so—only fair that you should expose yourself to the same flip of the coin—only fair that you should treat yourself as uncaringly as you treated him. This is your way of pursuing balance, justice, peace of mind. This is your search for harmony.”

They sat for a while in silence—Gurney’s mind blank, his feelings numb. Then Claret jarred him with a final twist: “Of course, your approach is a self-centered, tunnel-vision delusion.”

Gurney blinked. “What delusion?”

“You’re ignoring everything that matters.”

“Such as?”

Claret began to answer, then stopped, closed his eyes, and began taking long, slow breaths. When he placed his hands carefully on his knees, their shocking frailty became obvious.

“Malcolm?”

Claret’s right hand rose a few inches from his knee in a gesture that appeared designed to allay alarm. A minute or so later, his eyes opened. His voice was just above a whisper. “Sorry about that. My medication is less than perfect.”

“What is it? What …?”

“A nasty cancer.”

“Treatable?”

Claret laughed quietly. “In theory, yes. In reality, no.”

Gurney was silent.

“And reality is where we live. Until we die.”

“You’re in pain?”

“I would call it periodic discomfort.” He looked amused. “You’re wondering how long I have to live. The answer is a month, maybe two. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Gurney tried to say something appropriate. “God, Malcolm. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. Now, since our time is limited—yours as well as mine—let’s talk about where we live. Or should be living.”

“Meaning?”

“Reality. The place we need to live, in order to be alive. Tell me something. About Danny. Did you ever have a special name for him?”

Gurney was momentarily thrown by the question. “What do you mean, a special name?”

“Something other than his actual name. Maybe something you called him when you were putting him to bed, or holding him on your lap, or in your arms?”

He was about to say no when something came back to him, something he hadn’t thought of in years. The memory blindsided him with sadness. He cleared his throat. “My little bear.”

“Why did you call him that?”

“There was a look about him … especially if he was unhappy about something … that for some reason reminded me of a little bear. I’m not sure why.”

“And you would hug him?”

“Yes.”

“Because you loved him.”

“Yes.”

“And he loved you.”

“I suppose so. Yes.”