“Hello?” a woman says, her voice watery.

“Gabriella?”

“What?”

“Briella?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“An old friend. I’d like to come for a visit, is that okay?”

“Certainly. I like visits.”

“See you soon.”

We grab our rain shells and head out into the late afternoon. I rest a hand on Moose’s head through the lobby. Thomas takes my other one. I can’t recall the last time a man, especially one I’ve slept with, has held my hand. “Don’t be nice to me just because I cried like a big baby.”

He holds my hand tighter. “Never.”

We pass the concierge who mailed back my phone. When Elliot approaches, I look away and she takes the hint and passes by. Thomas grabs an umbrella from a silver urn by the door and the three of us crowd beneath it and cross the street to the parking lot as the skies unleash a rainstorm that could sink Noah’s Ark. I sit in the back of the SUV with Moose, who hates thunderstorms. He shakes with each loud crack and boom, hides his head beneath giant paws. “Do you know what makes that sound?” I ask my dog. “It’s the rapid expansion of air surrounding the path of a lightning bolt.”

“High school science class?” Thomas asks.

“Dad taught me.”

“Parenthood must be a hard job. My mom was only a few years older than I am now when her husband and son died. Yet I expected her to cope. Demanded it.”

There’s a deafening rumble. Moose whines. “Do you want children?” I ask.

Thomas slows to stop at a red light. “Always been ambivalent, probably because I can recall what it was like to have a relatively happy family. And there’s also the shrapnel when it was blown to bits. You said before that you don’t want kids?”

The light changes and Thomas navigates onto the highway. Rain turns to hail and hits the windshield with tiny mallets. When Moose whimpers, I wrap my arms around him. “I’ve never wanted them. Ever.”

“Why?” Thomas asks.

The truth, anchored deep, tugs free. “I’ve always been certain that having a child will somehow invite death.” I sound ridiculously dramatic and my face burns.

He’s quiet for a few minutes then says, “That’s a strong belief. Is it based on anything concrete?”

“You mean like a vision?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Could you be wrong?”

“. . . I don’t know.” The rest of the drive we’re both silent, lost in our own thoughts.

When we get off the highway, we find Hillcrest Memory Care at the end of a street filled with two- and three-story apartment buildings and a low-slung shopping mall with a Dollar Tree, Walgreens, and PetSmart. The one-story facility is painted bright yellow with white trim around the windows in a bid to look cheerful. Cherry trees bordering the parking lot are in bloom but the rain has beaten their blossoms senseless and they droop from the branches. I snap on Moose’s service dog vest.