“Of course we can’t. Which she knows. God, she’s such an asshole,” he whispers, because if he didn’t he would start to cry. And I haven’t even told him the part about agreeing to take Lucy. He shakes his head. “I still can’t believe this is happening.”

I paw at the dog now, too. I can’t believe it either.

“How long?” he asks.

I lean my back against the counter and put my hands on my hips, feeling the flesh folding over the top of my jeans, beyond the sling. Normally I’d grab it and curse it, but thinking of Glenn in her bed right now, with all her rapidly dividing cells and her not-long-for-this world eyes, I feel lucky to have it. “Three months—maybe six?” But I’m lying. I’m actually thinking a month, two if we’re lucky. I remember my parents, how they compared at those time markers—their weight, their stamina, their appetite, their will to live—and I sense that she is further along than we think—but I don’t want to upset Gary, so I backtrack: “I’m probably overreacting. She was probably just tired.”

He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly—one of the calming exercises he’s learned to control some of the physical symptoms of his anxiety. When he reaches into the sling one last time to pat the dog on the head, he reaches out to pet me on the head, too. Which, like most things about our relationship, is totally weird but somehow not weird at all. It’s at that moment that I notice Teddy lurking just outside the kitchen—he has an uncanny ability to pick up on when we’re having an important conversation; to sense when we’re trying to keep something from him.

“What’s wrong with Glennie?” he asks me, moving into the kitchen from the shadows and staring at the vegetables we’re chopping, knowing he won’t eat them. Glenn is the fun aunt he never officially had, the one who gave him extravagant gifts—huge stuffed animals, paints and easels, giant LEGO sets—and, after my parents were gone, went to every school performance and concert at Morningside Montessori, including the African drumming and improv Inhabitancies, and even the little pre-Thanksgiving and pre-Solstice classroom celebrations.

“She’s sick. But you know that.”

“So why were you talking about her?”

“Because I just saw her. We met for coffee today and I was telling her about going to your school the other day, how my presentation got interrupted, and how they’re looking for families to host People Puppets. She thinks it would be fun for us to host them. Like we’d get some good stories out of it that would be fun for her to hear.” I smile broadly, desperately. “If Daddy agrees.”

“Of course I agree. I’m a brave bear,” Gary says, nodding, taking another deep breath, convincing himself. “And so is Glenn. She’s a very very brave bear.”

“Would she come over and visit if they were here?”

I shrug. “I hope so!” I shrug again. “She’ll probably feel a little better next week. Or the week after. We’ll just have to see!” My voice cracks but I cough over it, then wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Stupid onion!”