How wonderful for you . Maxine wrote up the ticket . Where is he wait-listed?Princeton and Duke . Hearing his alma mater made Myron think again about Aimee. He flashed back to Larry and his spooky planet talk. Myron wasn't one for bad omens or any of that, but he didn't feel like poking the fates in the eye either. He debated trying Aimee's phone again, but what would be the point? He thought back over last night, replayed it in his head, wondered how he could have done it differently . Roger Myron had forgotten that the kid was already a high school senior came back and handed him the box of shirts. Myron took them, told Roger to put them on his account, headed out the door. He still had time before his flight . So he drove to Brenda's grave . The cemetery still overlooked a schoolyard. That was what he could still not get over. The sun shone hard as it always seemed to when he visited, mocking his gloom. He stood alone. There were no other visitors. A nearby backhoe dug a hole. Myron remained still. He lifted his head and let the sun shine on his face. He could still feel that the sun on his face. Brenda, of course, could not. Would never again . A simple thought, but there you go . Brenda Slaughter had only been twenty-six when she died. Had she survived, she'd have turned thirty-four in two weeks. He wondered where she'd be if Myron had kept his promise. He wondered if she'd be with him . When she died, Brenda was in the middle of her residency in pediatric medicine. She was six-foot-four, stunning, African-American, a model. She was about to play pro basketball, the face and image that would launch the new women's league. There had been threats made. So Myron had been hired by the league owner to protect her . Nice job, All-Star . He stood and stared down and clenched his fists. He never talked to her when he came here. He didn't sit and try to meditate or any of that. He didn't conjure up the good or her laugh or her beauty or her extraordinary presence. Cars whizzed by. The schoolyard was silent. No kids were out playing. Myron did not move . He did not come here because he still mourned her death. He came because he didn't . He barely remembered Brenda's face anymore. The one kiss they shared . . . when he conjured it up he knew it was more imagination than memory. That was the problem. Brenda Slaughter was slipping away from him. Soon it would be as though she never existed. So Myron didn't come here for comfort or to pay his respects. He came because he still needed to hurt, needed the wounds to stay fresh. He still wanted to be outraged because moving on feeling at peace with what happened to her was too obscene .