“I’m going to see your father. Want to come along?” Eddie asks me. Her voice is oscillating between red fury and greedy longing, as a bright silvery tear trickles from her eye. She wipes it away impatiently with the back of her hand, leaving a black smudge on her fingers and cheek. A second tear trickles from the other eye. Two twinkling eyes, from which the wintry sea is now streaming. The sound of her singing lingers in my ears. I imagine her singing to my father too. My father and her together.

It strikes me that she knows everything and I know nothing. I want to ask her a thousand things, but one question is at the forefront of my mind. Did he ever mention me?

He looked at me as he died, and for one never-ending instant I knew who he was. I could see the shadow years, the warmth and benevolence draining out of him, and I sensed that he knew me. It was a reunion.

Maybe I’m only imagining all of this, just as, long ago, I used to have imaginary friends. What do I mean, long ago? “Rational thought isn’t one of your brain’s strong suits, mon ami,” Scott would say.

“No, I’m not coming because . . .” I search for an excuse. Everything’s all muddled up. My entire being is sore and hot, but simultaneously numb and cool, as if it was snowing and scorching in Dr. Saul’s office at the same time.

The idea of Eddie’s leaving hurts. The idea that she perhaps loves my father also hurts. As does the idea that she might not love him, but that’s a different kind of hurt.

Her tears have cleansed her eyes. “Okay, never mind. They won’t have any use for us in the intensive care unit anyway. Is your mother picking you up?”

“Of course,” I lie.

“Good,” Eddie says. “I wouldn’t want to leave you alone right now. I really wouldn’t, Samuel.”

She looks at me, and it’s hard to meet her eyes and deceive her.

“Otherwise, you could come to my publishing house and I’ll drop you home later. Do you read fantastic novels?”

“Fantasy?” I shake my head.

“Not fantasy—fantastic. In the sense of augmented reality. Fantasy, on the other hand, involves stories about elves, vampires and orcs, Gandalf, gargoyles, and witches. Fantastic novels, or speculative fiction, are closer to reality.” Her voice is greener now, less red than before. “Speculative fiction focuses on ideas that are theoretically possible: tears in the space-time continuum, time travel. Back to the future, sort of. Speculative fiction is a reality crash—and that’s the name of my publishing house. So, do you read fantastic novels?”