I publish novels of magical realism. Not fantasy: there are no elves, no orcs, no vampires. Utopias and dystopias, stories about alternate realities, other planets, one world where there are no men and another devoid of adults—anything that’s potentially only three steps from our own reality and represents a scientifically plausible form of the miraculous.

I’d only left my father alone for a couple of hours in that hospital, which smelled, like this one, of antiseptic and anxiety. His room had a view of a canal and the golden roofs of London, and we would watch people playing with their dogs on the towpath.

A nurse declared that my father’s prognosis was positive; his collapse had been merely a shot across his bows. The doctors, who were incredibly young, would never look you in the eye or say a word as they hurried along the corridors, their white coats fluttering behind them as a symbol of their importance.

Dad’s bows were obviously less sturdy than everyone had assumed, for two hours later he was gone. I stood in his room, the manuscript in one hand and my motorbike helmet in the other, and his bed was empty.

Suddenly there was a doctor in charge. He led me to my father, whose eyes no longer shone like fjords but were now empty blue discs. His body was still warm, or at least slightly warm, and I sat down beside him in the empty farewell room, took his rapidly cooling hand in mine, and read the book to him. I didn’t know what else to do.

A nurse came to tell me that she was going home. I continued to read to him. Another nurse came to tell me that she was starting her shift. She came back later and said that she was going home now too. For a night and a day I held a vigil for my departed father. I whispered, “Good night, moon. Good night, room. Good night, Dad,” and in the early hours it felt as if he were standing behind me with his hands on my shoulders and telling me, “Now you’ll always know where I am.”

The worst thing imaginable had happened. My best friend was dead. My childhood was dead. There was no one left to love me.

“DON’T GET your hopes up even a jot,” says Dr. Saul. “There’s only a very slim chance that a person who wakes up after such a serious accident will be able to think in a logical fashion. We’re talking less than a nine percent chance. Do you understand that, Mrs. Tomlin?”

“No, I’m just a poor, stupid woman, doctor.”